


My Better Half (Sequel to My Cup of Tea)

by bibliosoph



Category: Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 30,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosoph/pseuds/bibliosoph
Summary: It's been a year since Simon and Baz broke up: a year of Simon Snow having to see pictures of Baz and Agatha in the papers as the happy power couple, a year of Baz Pitch being terribly miserable.Now, a year later, fate brings the two together again. In light of everything that happened between them, Simon has to see if he can balance his past and his future and, more importantly, if he can forgive Baz for everything he said that fateful evening. Baz has to see which is more important: his future at his father's company or getting Simon to let him back into his heart.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	1. One

It had been a year.

Penny had expected for Simon to get better with each day that passed, but he hadn't. Not in a way that mattered, anyway. Even after a year, he still spent all of his time on the sofa drinking cider and watching romance films on the telly. Some weeks, Penny's favorite weeks, he smiled and went out of the flat for a few hours every day. But then, other weeks, he'd see a newspaper and his progress would restart completely.

Penny tried to hide the papers that came in the mail, especially when the front page was so explicit, but sometimes Simon found them anyway. She would find him on the sofa, in a teary ball, with the crumpled paper tossed aside. Every time she looked at those papers, she saw pictures of Baz and Agatha kissing or holding hands with some kind of headline about their relationship. If she could, she would have liked to burn all of the papers in London if it saved Simon from more heartbreak. Her heart was breaking right along his. She was surprised that he was still alive, at this rate. He barely slept or ate to the point where the bags under his eyes seemed to be permanent and his ribs stood out from under his tawny skin.

Today, Penny was determined to get him out of the house. The past two weeks had been particularly bad since they reminded him that the anniversary of their breakup was on the horizon, and Penny had had enough of it. She refused to let Baz, that piece of shit, determine Simon's sanity for another minute. And, with a party that night, she thought that she had found the perfect reason to get Simon out of the house. It would be a night of drinking, playing stupid games, and (hopefully) meeting other people that he could try and have a future with.

People that were not pompous arseholes like Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

"Simon," she said, sitting beside him on the sofa.

He barely registered her voice—he didn't even look at her. Sometimes, Penny wondered if she was even real. When she tried to talk to Simon, she felt like she must've been a ghost because it was like she wasn't even there—not in his world, anyway. Maybe he was a ghost.

"Simon," she tried again, tentatively touching his shoulder.

He shuddered and looked up at her, pulled from his trance. A part of her wondered what he was thinking about, but another part of her didn't want to know at all. Every time she thought about him or what he'd been through too much, her mind reeled back to that night that she'd found him in his bathroom, his arms bloody and that horrified expression on his face as he realized what he'd done.

"Hm?"

It's breaking my heart to see you like this.

"There's a party tonight at Phillipa's."

He looked at her like he didn't understand what her words meant. It had been happening a lot over the past year. He struggled both with speaking and understanding sentences. He could manage a word or two, but stringing them together never worked as planned.

"Okay?"

"And we're going,"

Simon looked up at her, his blue eyes full of confusion at her words. "What?"

"We're going to the party. Both of us."

He didn't protest, even when she helped him pick out an outfit suitable for the event. Even when she watched him examine himself in the mirror—looking at how put together he looked. Sadly, it was the most put together he'd looked in the whole year. Usually, even on the Good Days, he wore his joggers and a tee shirt. Now, for the party, he wore jeans and a nice fitted polo shirt. He hadn't looked so real, so tangible, all year. It broke Penny's heart to see him half-heartedly smile at his reflection, admiring how he looked. It broke her heart to see him realize that he, despite everything, could've looked like this all along if only he'd given himself enough time and energy.

"You look very handsome, Simon," she told him she she wrapped his hands around his waist, peering at the two of them in the mirror.

He smiled (genuinely) and sighed in content.

"Thanks, Pen. I feel...I feel good," he replied.

"You deserve to. Tonight will be fun, okay? We'll drink and play stupid party games and it'll be a good night, then we'll come back and watch Sherlock until it's we're too tired to keep our eyes open."

He hummed in agreement, which Penny took to mean: I'm ready.


	2. Two

As much as Simon hated to admit it, it felt pretty good to get out of the flat. This past year had been hard for him in more ways than one. The nasty breakup with Baz (who he was pretty convinced, even after everything, was the love of his life) was certainly the worst of it, but then there had been the letter. The second one he'd received from the same person––the person that knew about his parents and wanted to meet up with him to discuss them. Simon had basically zero interest in meeting with this person, whoever they were, especially at this point in time. He'd ignored the first letter for years, so he was sure he could manage ignoring this one, too.

The worst part of all of it was how his behavior effected Penny. They'd been friends forever (been through thick and thin) but Simon still felt bad about it. She'd seen him through his worst, and this was certainly the thick of it. If he couldn't get better for himself, he wanted to get better for her's. She deserved a friend that could function on a daily basis––someone who could leave the house whenever they pleased, someone who could get their head out of the bottomless pit of despair and pay attention to her. Surely she had her own shit going on, and Simon knew that his self-defeating behavior was taking away whatever she was feeling about her own life. He felt terrible about it, but he didn't really know how to fix it, either. 

When she'd found him in the bathroom that fateful night (which was about a week after the letter arrived, though she didn't know that much), he thought that she would leave him. Not bleeding out in the bathroom, of course (she was much too good a friend to do that), but that she would drop him off somewhere, some treatment facility or another, and that'd be it. She'd let him heal on his own. But she hadn't. Instead, she'd called an ambulance and let him make the decision of what he should do next. He knew that he needed help, but he didn't want to be locked away. Not really. And, since it was his decision, he settled for joining a support group and getting a therapist. And Penny was there with him through all of it.

He knew he didn't deserve a friend like her, especially tonight when she put her own happiness aside to drag him, her depressed oaf of a friend, to a party. 

This was his chance to prove that he was trying. His chance to prove that he wanted to get better. So, when she got him dressed and called an Uber, he put a smile on his face. He forced himself to look at his surroundings out the window. Forced himself to make stupid comments about the strange things they saw along the way. And, when they finally arrived at the party and greeted Phillipa, he forced an even bigger smile on his face and gave her a hug.

"Thanks for having us over," he said, pulling away from the hug. 

Phillipa smiled back at him, clearly surprised to see him there. "Of course. I'm just happy you actually came. Penny said she didn't think you'd make it."

He had no idea what Penny told people when they asked about him. Almost all of their friends from sixth form were still in London so they ended up running into them quite often (some of them were even at their university, too). Surely Penny had some sort of lie about Simon in her back pocket––something at the ready whenever anyone asked what he was up to and why they hadn't seen him around. 

Penny hugged Phillipa, too. "Yeah, he just needed a nudge."

"Well, I'm glad you're here. We've got drinks in the kitchen behind me. I think Rhys is playing DJ now, which is a tragedy, so if either of you could try and take over, I'd be very thankful." 

"We'll do our best," Simon chuckled. 

Phillipa shot both of them one last smile, giving Simon's shoulder a squeeze in the process, and hurried off to go play hostess with everyone else. 

When she was gone, Penny turned to him with that smile still painted across her face. "I think she fancies you."

He rolled his eyes and tugged a hand through his curls. "Doubt it. Anyway, I'm not here to meet girls. I came with you and I plan on leaving with you, too."

Penny giggled and took his hand, leading him into the kitchen to get him a drink. As soon as she spotted the cider, she reached for it. She handed him one, but he shook his head and pushed it away. 

"We're at a party," he explained, grabbing the bottle of vodka instead. "I'll not be having any cider. That's my depression juice." He started pouring the vodka into two cups, one for each of them.

"Depression juice? Is that what you're calling it now?" 

He nodded, adding in some sort of juice (or maybe soda? it was too dark in there to properly read the label) into the cups. "I think I'll just throw the lot out tomorrow. Stick to tea." 

She raised an eyebrow and accepted her drink from him. "Really, Simon? You're just going to throw it out? For no reason?" 

He took a sip of his drink (which wasn't all that bad, if he was being honest) and shrugged. "I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. No more wallowing about Baz. It's been a whole year––I need to just...well I need to get the fuck over it."

She raised her cup. "To getting the fuck over Baz: he's a wanker that doesn't deserve your energy!" 

"Cheers," Simon concurred, tapping his cup against her's triumphantly. 

"I'm glad I'm good for something," someone said from behind them. 

Simon turned and found himself face-to-face with the devil himself.

Baz.


	3. Three

When Agatha asked him to come along to this stupid party, Baz almost had a fit right then and there. He was so bloody tired of pretending to be her boyfriend––of kissing her and holding her hand. He was so tired of having to keep up with these appearances. He was sure that, one of these days, it would all just drive him absolutely mental and he wouldn't be able to control whatever bile came out of his mouth. 

Just like it had a year ago with Simon.

He still thought about that night. Often. It was probably pointless for him to keep running things over in his head (obsessing over it) but he couldn't help it. Even a year later, he was still helplessly in love with Simon Snow. It didn't help that Agatha liked to talk about him all the time––that she asked incessant questions wondering why they weren't friends anymore. Sometimes, when she saw something that reminded her of Simon, she pointed it out. Baz would have to grit his teeth and pretend not to be interested in it. Pretend like the mere mention of his name wasn't breaking his heart over and over again until he was positive that he didn't even have a heart anymore. Not a functioning one, anyway. 

The only good (or maybe bad) thing to come from all of this thinking was that he saw how wrong he had been. Now that he was "with" Agatha, he knew that Simon's choice was sound. There was no way that he would have been able to keep up appearances with Agatha while still trying to maintain a relationship with Simon. It just wasn't logical. 

That didn't mean that Baz was still fuming about it. Simon had made the good choice––because that was just who Simon was. Good. But it hadn't been the right choice. Baz hated him for making the choice, even if it was probably for the best in the long run. He still resented Simon for giving him up. For moving on. Whenever he thought about what Simon Snow might be up to, he pictured him lazing around his flat with a beautiful girl under his arm, cuddling on the sofa. She probably stopped by the cafe almost everyday, too, when she could. He probably wrote cute little notes for her on the cup instead of her name. Maybe he loved her. Maybe he told her so. 

So when Agatha insisted that he come to this party, he wanted to break down right then and there in the dress aisle of Harrods. He wanted to throw a full-on tantrum because his life was just so fucking unfair and miserable that he felt like he was suffocating. Or maybe like he was being swallowed whole. He went, anyway. He knew that it was the good thing to do. If he had known what would happen, maybe he wouldn't have.

Or, more likely, he would have showed up before he did. Would have gone in a sprint to get there.

As soon as they arrived, Agatha went off to talk to some friends from school. Baz decided that there was no way he could get through this without a stiff drink, so he made his way to the kitchen to pour himself one. When he got there, he saw Simon and Penny standing by the counter. They were just talking, nothing special, but he felt his heart clench in his chest. He stared at them for a minute from the doorway, just watching as Simon nervously poured them drinks. 

Simon looked like he had been kidnapped. Like he was a fucking prisoner of war. He had big bags under his eyes like he hadn't sleep in months. He was so thin that Baz could make out the outline of his ribs, even under his polo shirt. It broke his heart to see him like that, and broke his heart even more when he realized that this must've been because Simon's new girlfriend, whoever she was, had broken up with him recently. Baz had looked a lot like Simon did towards the beginning of the year. It had taken him two months to leave the flat, another month to start showing his face at work again. He told his father that he was ill. He didn't seem to care enough to look into it.

Penny raised her cup. "To getting the fuck over Baz: he's a wanker that doesn't deserve your energy," she exclaimed. 

Simon smiled and knocked her cup with his own. "Cheers." 

So it's me, he thought to himself from the doorway. It's still me that has him looking like that. 

He didn't know if he should be happy or terribly, terribly guilty.

"I'm glad I'm good for something," he said, moving over towards them. 

Simon turned and stared at him for a moment. Those familiar blue eyes searched his own for a moment before Simon yelped, sending his drink tumbling to the floor. He started hyperventilating, turning panicked eyes towards Penny like she knew what to do. Baz watched in horror as he sunk to the floor, pressing his knees up against himself. Penny shot Baz a glare and joined Simon on the floor, running her hands through his hair.

"Remember to breathe, Simon. In and out. In and out."

Baz watched this unfold and realized that this had probably happened before. It seemed like Penny knew exactly what to do and say to talk Simon out of his fit, like she had done this so many times that the cure was etched in her brain. 

Baz didn't know if he should turn and leave or stay and try to help. It was his fault, after all. 

Someone tugged on his arm then gasped at the sight on the floor.

"Simon!" Agatha said, abandoning Baz's arm and rushing to Simon's side. Simon shook his head when she approached him. He turned to Penny again, his head shaking so rapidly that Baz thought it might fall off. 

"You need to get out of here," Penny seethed through clenched teeth. 

"What's wrong with him? I want to help! Simon? Simon, are you okay?"

"You're only making it worse," Penny explained. 

Agatha backed away slowly like she was backing away from a sleeping lion. She grabbed Baz's arm again, pressing herself into him like his touch was comforting. 

"Leave the room," Penny said. "Take Basilton with you."

Agatha nodded and reached for Baz's hand, pulling him with her through the archway.


	4. Four

Penny's going to think that I'm having a fit because of everything Baz said to me. Like seeing him brought it all back.

The reason I'm having a fit is because I wasn't expecting to see him. I wasn't expecting to see him and then have all of those feelings come rushing back

Simon felt like a proper idiot as he struggled to get his breathing under control. This sort of thing had happened pretty frequently over the past year. Theoretically, he knew that he just had to try and clear his mind and take labored breaths. That was all easier said than done because every time he tried to clear his mind, he remembered that Baz was probably in the hallway or the next room over trying to see what was going on with his pathetic ex-boyfriend. He was probably plotting some scheme on how to embarrass Simon even further. 

As if he hadn't done a well enough job on his own. 

"Why are they here?"

Penny shrugged, sighed, and put her hand on his shoulder like she was trying to push her love into him. Like it would even help if she could. 

"Did you know? That--that they'd be here?" 

She shook her head. "I wouldn't have brought you if I had."

"Have they been at others? Parties? With you?"

She stood and offered him her hand. He took it. Phillipa rushed in with a fistful of paper towels. Simon opened his mouth to apologize but she waved him away like he didn't owe her an explanation or apology. It was nice, if he was being honest. Not feeling like there was just another person he had to apologize to. 

"I guess. I don't really interact with them, though. I think Basilton knows well enough to steer clear of me. I wasn't lying when I said I could run him through."

Simon couldn't help but let out a chuckle. 

What had he been expecting? 

Seeing Baz was certainly not something he'd expected, but his reaction seemed about right. Yeah, the panic attack was less than ideal, but what else could he have done? Just said a pleasant hello and pretend like the sight of him wasn't still breaking his heart after all this time? 

"We can go," Penny suggested from beside him. "We don't have to stay here."

He shook his head, feeling his body fill up with determination. "No," he said, probably too eagerly. He cleared his throat. "I just mean...well, I had to see him at some point, didn't I?" 

Part of him (a large part of him that took quite a lot of energy to tell to bugger off) wanted to go find Baz. He didn't want to yell at him or fight (which were usually his first reactions). He didn't want to snog him, either. Well, he did, but he knew that he shouldn't. That he couldn't. He just wanted to go find him for the sake of being around him. 

He'd had a lot of time to think about that night. He'd overanalyzed every moment, every word that Baz said, a thousand times over by now. He knew that he'd made the best choice––that breaking up with Baz was the decent thing to do for both their sakes––but it didn't make it the right choice. Any choice that ended with him losing Baz forever surely wasn't a good choice or even a decent choice. He'd fallen so helplessly in love with him. It was quick, too. When it was all over, Simon spent two weeks thoroughly convinced that it had been some strange dream turned nightmare that he'd just woken up from. 

The point was: he knew Baz. Knew his facial expressions (for the most part, when he wasn't being too guarded). Knew his heart. He knew that Baz didn't mean a single word that he'd said. If he told Penny that, she would've thrown a fit and called Simon thick. Maybe he was being rather thick, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe that Baz had meant any of those nasty things that he'd said that night. Simon certainly hadn't meant what he'd said about Baz's family. 

"Fine," Penny conceded with a sigh. "We'll stay. But, if that bastard sticks one toe out of line again––"

"It'll be fine," Simon assured her, leading the two of them into the living room where the party was in full-throttle. "I'll be fine. I'm not mad about it. Really." 

She raised an eyebrow at him like she didn't quite believe that he wouldn't go find Baz and deliver a good punch right in his (perfect) nose, so he just smiled at her. She dropped it, at least for the time being, and went off to fetch him another drink. 

He didn't mind being alone. It might've been good, in other circumstances, to catch up with old school mates. Instead, everyone was looking at him (probably whispering about him, too). He felt the tips of his ears get red but he kept his cool. He plopped down onto the old ruddy sofa and watched as people danced in front of him. If Penny were still nailed to his side, he might've offered her a dance. They probably would've made total fools of themselves, but it would've been fun because they'd be dancing. 

Simon hadn't danced in so long. 

"I'm sorry," a voice said from his side. He turned and saw Baz standing there, hands in his jeans pockets. He really did look sorry, so Simon smiled half-heartedly and gestured for him to sit. Baz looked at him, furrowing his brow in confusion, then sat down on the sofa. He sat as far as he could from Simon, but Simon didn't mind. He probably wouldn't have been able to stand being so close to him, anyway. 

"It's not your fault. Just my stupid body. I have trouble..." he waved his hands in the air, dismissing the thought. "Never mind."

Baz was quiet for a moment. "I can leave, if you want. I'm sure that Agatha will stay for a bit, but the least I can do––"

"You should stay," Simon said. "I mean, if you want."

Baz nodded. "Right."

Fucking hell, will it always be this awkward? Are all exes this uncomfortable sitting on the same bloody sofa after a whole year? 

"You look..."

Simon looked at him, his nose scrunched. "I look what?" 

"Good." 

Simon scoffed. "Really? I thought I looked a bit shit." 

Baz laughed in the way that Simon liked––a real laugh that made the edges of his eyes crinkle. "Fine, Snow. You do look a bit shit. Are you...are you okay?"

Simon shrugged. "Dunno. I'm alive, aren't I? Just been a hard year is all. I'm sure I'll manage. I've been through worse."

"If it makes you feel any better," Baz offered, scooting in a bit closer to Simon, "I've had a hard year, too."

Simon knit his brows together. "Why would that make me feel better?" 

"I don't know. I suppose I thought you might like to know that I'm hurting or something. That the fact that I'm in pain might ease your own. Help you sleep at night or something."

"What am I? A sadist? Christ, Baz. And you say I'm thick."

"So you're not happy? That I've been fucking miserable in this––" he leans in a bit closer, lowering his voice––"fake relationship with Wellbelove?"

He shrugged again. "No? I think I just feel sorry for you. Agatha, too."

Baz looked at him like he had just sprouted a second head. He was tempted to check to make sure he hadn't.

"I'll never understand you, Snow. You're just so damn good, aren't you?"

"What 'bout you? Are you happy that I'm miserable?"

"Fuck no. When I saw you earlier...it nearly broke my damn heart, if I'm being honest." He took a deep breath. "I could see your ribcage through your shirt and those bags under your eyes and something just broke inside of me. I still––"

"Simon," Penny said, suddenly back and with two full cups in her hands. She looked disappointed, but Simon didn't really mind. It was his decision, anyway. 

"I should probably go find Wellbelove," Baz said, standing. 

Simon looked up at him, silently begging him to stay, but Penny's daggers were obviously stronger. Baz looked back at Simon once, a sad smile on his face, and walked away.


	5. Five

What was I expecting? For Simon to see me standing there, a huge smile spread across his face, and call me "darling?" 

Simon Snow is never going to call me darling.

What Baz certainly wasn't expecting was for Simon to have a full-on panic attack. Then for Simon to offer him a seat on the sofa. And, most of all, he really didn't expect to almost tell Simon that he was still terribly, helplessly, hopelessly in love with him.

Then, of course, Penny had charged into the conversation. It was probably better that way, especially since Baz was fairly positive that Simon had zero interest in starting up any sort of relationship again. He'd taken that as his signal to go and find Agatha, or maybe just to find a quiet corner to brood in. He needed a moment to himself––a moment to clear his mind. Maybe not clear it, but at least focus it. The toilet was free, so he locked himself in there. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. 

He stared at himself in the mirror like he could somehow try and see straight through his own bullshit. 

Snap out of it, he told himself, glaring at his pale reflection.

He tried to remind himself of how important his fake relationship with Agatha was to his father––to his future. If he didn't remind himself of that, it would all come apart. He would go back to Simon, get down on his knees and beg Simon to take him back. Instead, he splashed cold water on his face and glared at himself in the small, shitty mirror. 

"Get your shit toge--"

There was a knock on the door. 

"Just a second," he replied, flushing the toilet to make it sound like he had been in here for obvious reasons and not just to give himself a mental break from Simon Snow and Agatha Wellbelove. 

When he opened the door, he found himself face-to-face with Simon for the second (or third, possibly. If the kitchen counted) time that evening. Baz wondered if Simon saw him go in there and decided to wait outside. Maybe Simon would punch him. He certainly deserved it. 

"I thought you went to find Agatha," Simon said. He looked nervous, but Baz didn't know why. 

He also had no idea what to say to that. 

"I'm sorry Penny interrupted us earlier," he said.

Baz raised an eyebrow. 

Why is he sorry? Did he have something to say? Something important?

"It's fine. Probably for the best, at any rate. I wouldn't want you to punch me square in the jaw."

Simon furrowed his brow. "I wouldn't. Why--how are--"

"Use your words, Snow."

Simon growled, his anger reverberating through the small hallway and sending a shiver down Baz's spine. Baz felt incredibly stupid for realizing that he missed Simon's growls. 

"I've missed you, alright?"

No. That can't be possible. Not after everything I said to him. Not after I ignored his texts for that first week when he sent them. Not when I refused to acknowledge that he existed. 

"I--" Baz was at a loss for words. 

Simon shoved his hands into his pockets. "I think...I'd like to be friends."

Baz huffed and folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. "You think," he said, glaring at him, "that you'd like to be friends?"

"Don't be a prick. I...I do. Want to be friends, I mean."

"You do realize that we've never been friends."

Simon shrugged. "Dunno. Don't care much, either. I just...I miss seeing you. Talking to you. Things are different now. I know that. But I'd like to try, if you're in." 

The possibility of becoming friends with Simon after everything hadn't even crossed Baz's mind. There was no logical leap from "I'm passionately and helplessly in love with you" to "meet anyone cute today?" Friends. Baz didn't think that he could manage it. 

He'd be alright with friends as long as that meant that they could still see each other. Alone, without Penny or Agatha or anyone else there to come between them.

He'd be alright with friends as long as that meant that they could sit next to each other on the sofa, practically invading the other one's space.

He'd be alright with friends as long as that meant that Simon wouldn't date anyone else––as long as he wouldn't talk about anyone else in the way he used to talk about Baz. 

He'd be alright with friends as long as that meant that Baz could kiss him whenever he wanted. As long as he'd be able to run his teeth across Simon's neck––

Friends, he huffed to himself. As if there will be a single moment where I don't want to kiss the life out of him.

"I don't really have friends."

Simon grinned. "Me neither."

"You've got Bunce." He would have said "and you had Wellbelove, too," but that seemed like a low blow. 

"She's like my sister. Doesn't count."

Baz rolled his eyes. "Fine," he conceded, extended his hand. "Friends."

Simon, still smiling, shook it. 

Baz had to refrain himself from cocking an eyebrow when he saw that white, jagged scar on Simon's forearm. He hadn't had it before. 

Simon Snow, he thought as they shook on it, What have I done to you?


	6. Six

It had been a week since the party––a week since Simon had told Baz that he wanted to be friends.

He didn't really want to be friends, but it seemed like the only way he could keep Baz in his life.

And, fuck, he needed Baz back in his life.

It was rainy and cold so Simon was in his flat, just peering out the window. He didn't have any class but Penny had classes and a study group, so she'd be gone all day. He'd already done his homework and watched three hours of telly, but he was restless. This wasn't the kind of day he could spend cooped up inside (which was inconvenient with the weather). Instead, he felt his body on edge. He was practically twitching with pent up energy that he needed to release. But, he also felt terribly lonely.

On days like this, he'd bring himself to leave the flat for a few hours by himself just to walk around or go a cafe. Just for a change of venue. Most times, he felt perfectly fine on his own, but not today. He wasn't worried that he was going to hurt himself or something, but he could feel that darkness creeping in like a fog. He didn't want it, not today. So he got dressed and brushed his teeth and tried to figure out what he could do to help himself get rid of some of this energy. He looked through his contacts like seeing names on his screen might reveal some friend he'd forgotten about. He supposed that he could have tried some of his old friends from sixth form, but it seemed like it would just be awkward. But then he came across Baz's contact and...well.

We did say we'd try friends, he reminded himself. 

He tapped on the contact and pressed the "call" button. If Baz wasn't available, at least Simon would be able to hear his voice (even if it was just a rejection).

Baz picked up on the third ring, just when Simon was about to give up hope.

"Hello?"

Simon sighed in relief. "Hi."

"Are you okay?"

"I--yeah. I mean, I'm feeling a bit..."

"A bit what, Snow?" 

Simon tugged on his hair and plopped down on the sofa, stretching his body over the ruddy fabric. "Suffocated. I dunno. I feel like I'm going crazy."

"Okay," Baz said, tentatively. "Why are you telling me this?"

"We're friends, yeah?"

"I suppose." 

"Well then, as my friend, could you help me?" 

"What do you need me to do?" 

Simon couldn't help but smile at that. In fact, he was beaming, like a right idiot, on the sofa. Sometimes, when he had a particularly bad day, he had trouble believing that people (Penny) actually cared (she did. Always.) And, as much as he loved her, she was terrible at helping him. She was good at helping him with panic attacks and whatnot, but when it came to this sort of thing––this energy that set him on edge––she had no idea what to do. 

"Just go for a walk, Simon. I've got studying to do. We can go out for dinner later, if you want."

He never wanted to go out for dinner, especially later, whenever that was. When he got like this, he didn't really know what he wanted or what he needed, and Penny's dismissal of his feelings made him feel like a prick. He knew that she cared, but it was always hard for her to express that sometimes, especially when he was practically buzzing underneath his skin.

But Baz, who he hadn't really spoken to in a year, was there on the other line. He was asking what Simon needed him to do. Asking, in Baz-speak, how can I make you feel better?

"I just need to get out of here. Out of my flat."

"Where's Bunce?"

"Out. School and studying." 

Baz was quiet for a moment. He was probably trying to figure out what to say. Simon was half-sure that he'd dismiss it, too. That he'd tell Simon to bugger off. 

"Do you...do you want me to come meet you somewhere? Do you want company or––"

"Yes," Simon sighed. "If...if it's not too much of a bother. I just...I can't be alone right now." 

That seemed to get Baz's attention, but he wasn't sure why. "I see. I can meet you at that cafe in about fifteen minutes. I'm leaving right now, okay?"

Simon beamed to himself. "Thank you. Just––thanks."

There was a shuffling noise in the background. "Of course. Are you going to be okay until then or do you need me to stay on the phone?"

"I'll be fine. I should get ready, any way. I'll see you there in ten minutes. Thanks. Really."

He hung up the phone and went into his room to change (even though he was already dressed) because he didn't want to look like a slob. He didn't want Baz to think that he was completely helpless and gross. He changed into a pale blue sweater that Ebb had gotten for him last Christmas. He hadn't worn it yet (he'd been in the thick of his depression at the time she'd given it to him and he didn't feel like he deserved something so nice). He had to take the tag off before he slid it over his head, but it fit perfectly. He messed with his curls for a moment (he really needed a haircut) before deciding that there was really nothing he could do to fix them. He changed into a pair of dark grey jeans because he was sure that Baz would make some comment about the blue-on-blue if he kept his current ones on, then slipped on his red Converses. 

Thank the fucking lord for Baz, he smiled to himself as he grabbed his keys, mobile, and wallet. Thank Christ he picked up, he thought as he locked the door behind himself. 

He bounded down the steps to the bottom floor, taking them two at a time. He'd be a bit early, but it was fine. He could order the coffees while he waited. He still knew what Baz liked (which made him feel terribly pathetic) so he could surprise him when he got there. It'd be a nice gesture. The free coffee. Maybe it'd make Baz happy.


	7. Seven

When Baz saw Simon's contact flash up on his mobile, he expected...

Well. He wasn't sure what he expected.

Maybe, since he had seen how thin and how tired Simon (and seen that scar on his forearm) maybe he expected that it wouldn't have been Simon at all. Honestly, when he saw his contact, his stomach sunk to the floor and he felt bile reach up his throat. He thought it was Penelope calling to say that Simon was dead. That it was his fault.

So, when Simons' voice came through, he felt relief wash over him. It quickly subsided again when Simon said that he couldn't be alone. Then, Baz didn't care that he'd told Agatha they could grab lunch. He cancelled his plans with her almost instantly and shot out of his apartment in a desperate attempt to get to Simon as quickly as possible.

He had no idea what had been going on in Simon's life over the past year, but he knew enough from just looking at him to be scared. He wasn't sure Simon would tell him about it, but he wanted him to. He wanted to comfort him and make him feel better. If he could. But he also wanted Simon to keep it to himself because there really was nothing Baz could do to make him feel better. Knowing about what had happened to him (what he had done to himself and why) might have snapped Baz's heart in half.

Simon was already in the cafe, sitting down at a table. He smiled when he saw Baz come in and held up a cup.

Baz raised an eyebrow in confusion but sat down across from him, eyeing the cup suspiciously. 

"I got you that candy bar thing," Simon said, sliding the cup towards him. 

"Pumpkin mocha breve?"

Simon shrugged. "Yeah. Thought it was the least I could do. Y'know, for just barging back into your life."

Please. Barge in whenever you want. Take me away from everything completely.

"Is it poisoned?"

Simon chuckled and rolled his eyes, fiddling with his hair nervously. "'Course not."

Baz took a tentative sip. It was good (and it didn't taste like it had been tampered with). He smiled at Simon, a small corner-of-the-mouth smile, in appreciation. "I can't believe you remembered."

"Hard not to. It's basically a liquid candy bar."

It was silent for a moment. Simon kept running his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. It had gotten longer, like maybe he hadn't cut it the entire year. 

Baz cleared his throat. "Are you...are you okay?" 

Simon quirked an eyebrow at him. "Why do you keep asking me that?" 

Baz didn't know if he was allowed to say that he'd seen the scar on his arm. He didn't know if that was crossing a line or something. And, if he did mention it, it would be obvious that it was a memory he had retained from the party. Simon was wearing a jumper, now, sitting across from him. A lovely blue jumper that brought out his eyes. The blue of the jumper tugged at the life in his eyes, bringing it closer. Last time Baz had seen him, his eyes had looked so dead that they were almost grey. 

"Nothing." 

"You can tell me," Simon assured him. "As friends, I think we should be open with each other, yeah?"

Baz nodded. "I suppose. I just don't want you to get, well, uncomfortable. So when I say this, or anything for that matter, if it makes you at all uncomfortable, you can just tell me to bugger off and I'll drop it." 

Simon nodded. 

"I saw that scar," Baz said, trying to choose his words very carefully. "On your forearm. I noticed it when we shook hands. And then, when you called me today, I got a bit worried that you might not be okay. Physically." 

Simon sighed and looked down at his drink. He hadn't touched it. "You thought––I––what? What did you think happened?" 

"What?"

Simon tugged at the sleeve of his jumper. "I just...did you only come today because...because you thought I was––"

"No," Baz said. He wanted, more than anything, to take Simon's hand in his own. "I would've come regardless. But I worried."

Simon looked up at him like he wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or not. 

"Simon, of course I'm worried. I think I'll always worry about you. Care about you. Even if we're just friends. Hell, I was worried about you even when we weren't friends. And then, when I saw you...if we're going to be friends, proper friends, I need to know what's going on with you."

"What do you mean? Like a daily check-in?"

"No. I just mean that you need someone. Christ, it doesn't even have to be me, but you do. You need someone who you can call when you're feeling 'suffocated.' I...I wouldn't mind it, being that person for you. And you have every right to tell me to bugger off right now, but I can't help but feel that maybe there's a reason we found each other again. And I haven't a clue about what's been going on in your life and why you're like this, but I'd like to know and I'd like to help. If you'll have me."

Simon looked at him for a moment. He looked at him for a while, actually. Baz had been speaking rather quickly and Simon was generally not very good at processing words. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. I'd like that. I mean, I don't want to, like, burden you with my stupid shit––"

"It's not stupid. Nothing is stupid. It's your mental health and every factor is very important. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." 

Simon smiled at him, the light (his life) reaching his eyes again. "Are you sure? That you––you––want this? Want to have to handle this?"

Baz nodded. In fact, he'd never been more sure of anything in his life.

Yes, he was miserable because he wasn't dating Simon anymore, but this still felt like something. At least, now, he'd be able to be involved in Simon's life. He could be the person who helped get Simon out of his flat when he felt stuck. He could take him on adventures to get his mind off of...whatever his mind was stuck on. Baz would cross every line for him. He would lay down his life for him.

In some ways, this was a promise. A promise that, no matter what, they could be there for each other. It was a promise that Baz was more than willing to stay true to.


	8. Eight

There were a few things that Baz learned about Simon over the next two weeks of their friendship.

1\. Simon had (literally, he was diagnosed) Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety (and possibly a hint of PTSD). He had a therapist who had told him so, but he hadn't made a move to see a psychiatrist.

2\. Simon didn't acknowledge that he had either of the above. Baz had learned this when he tried asking Simon, one day, if he felt depressed or anxious. Since then, he'd learned to say something like, "Hey, Snow. How was your day? Did you feel sad or stressed?" Sad and stressed were the two words that he preferred (as opposed to depressed or anxious). 

3\. Simon had Bad Days. On these days, Baz offered to just come over and be there (if Penelope was out). Sometimes, Simon let him. Secretly, Baz just wanted to be there to keep an eye on him. He knew that Simon didn't acknowledge him, but he felt better when he was there. There had been two over this two week span. 

4\. Something happened. Something to do with a letter from a stranger. Simon didn't talk about it in detail, but Baz would be there when he was. Baz figured it was something about Simon's childhood––something he was trying to repress. 

But, there were still things that Baz didn't know. Well, one thing in particular: how Simon got those scars. He'd guessed, of course, but it was killing him not to know. He'd done a pretty good job and understanding Simon's moods and what he could and could not do during certain periods. The two Bad Days he'd experienced made him very sad, but it was always nice when Simon texted him the next day with an apology (which wasn't necessary, of course) and offered to buy him coffee or something.

Baz didn't want to pretend that he was best friends with Simon, but he felt like he was pretty damn close. In fact, he felt like this was the closest to Simon he'd ever been. Maybe it was because Simon was more vulnerable now (because he was broken). Baz liked it, even on the Bad Days. He liked feeling like he was helping (though he wasn't really sure if he was) and he liked feeling important in Simon's life. Simon was helpful for him, too. He kept Baz grounded when work got hard or he got a (relatively, at least by his standards) bad grade on an assignment. 

He'd gotten a B on a paper one day. He texted Simon about it because he didn't know what else to do or who else he could talk to. Simon had showed up on his doorstep an hour later with a pumpkin mocha breve and a box of cupcakes that said "Bee Positive" on them with little icing bumblebees on them. Baz had wanted to punch him for a moment with the mention of the B right there in icing. He told Simon that, because they were trying to be better communicators (which felt like a very boyfriendy thing to do, but whatever). Simon had furrowed his brow in confusion, looked down at the cupcakes, and then back up at Baz. His mouth hung open in surprise as he realized his mistake, but then Baz just chuckled and removed the two e's from BEE. 

"There," he had said, looking down at Simon's cupcakes triumphantly. "Now I've gotten a B positive––a B plus. You've given me a better grade." 

It had been stupid, but it made Baz's heart soar, even now when he thought about it. He probably shouldn't have been thinking about it since he was at dinner with his "girlfriend," but there was never a moment where he stopped thinking about Simon. He thought, maybe, that just being Simon's friend would be enough. Simon was a terrific friend, even though he didn't feel like it. Baz wanted that to be enough––for friendship to settle whatever butterflies he felt in his stomach when he saw him or thought about him. It only got worse, though. Every time they hung out––completely platonically––Baz fell a little bit harder. 

He tried to focus his attention on Agatha. She was talking about something. Something about school, perhaps. But Baz's mind was a million miles away.

Blue eyes. 

Bronze curls. 

The fact that Simon Snow was back in his life.


	9. Nine

Penelope was not an idiot.

She knew that there was something going on with Simon. It didn't seem like something bad, so she didn't bring it up. He wasn't happier, not exactly, but it felt like he had a bit more life in him. Whatever he was keeping from her, she'd let him keep it until he was ready. She loved him with everything in her, so she needed to respect him.

She wondered, sometimes, if he had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Someone. He was on his mobile more often, and he was almost always smiling at it. If he did have a secret boyfriend or girlfriend, she'd let him keep that from her. She would wait until he wanted to tell her, and, until then, she'd continue to do her best to be by his side.

There was no denying that it had been hard for her to be there for him recently. It killed her to know that she wasn't being a perfect friend, but at least she was trying. It was hard to manage Simon in his current state, especially with the weight of that fateful night in the bathroom weighing on their shoulders. They still hadn't really talked about it––not since he'd gotten out of hospital––and she didn't think it would be good to talk about it. Not for Simon, anyway. So she didn't bring it up. Instead, she went to class and made (or tried to make, anyway) dinner for him when she had the time. He was leaving the flat more often these days, and sometimes he wasn't even home for dinner. Sometimes he'd leave early in the morning and he wouldn't come back until it was dark outside and she was just starting to worry if he'd been kidnapped or something.

He'd started working again, too. That was new. It was good, though. So she decided to start visiting him at The Daily Grind when she could. She'd bring her laptop and her coursework and hunker down in one of the tables in the corner. He'd bring her coffee and tea and pastries to help her through it.

Today was one of those days.

He was covering a shift for someone else on top of his own, so he'd been in the shop since the morning. It was the afternoon when she went in. He looked positively drained, but he didn't look unhappy. If he stayed busy, his mind would shut off. It was hard to really think when you had to please a slew of angry, caffeine-deprived customers.

"Penny," he grinned when she came in. It was mostly empty by then with just two hours until closing. Penny planned on staying the whole time––on walking home with him. Maybe they would stop for dinner somewhere if he was up for it.

"Hi, Simon," she said, moving up to the counter. "Any recommendations?"

That was another thing that Simon had started doing––experimenting with drinks. He only did it for her, presumably because the normal customers had their regular, boring orders and didn't want to try one of his concoctions. She loved his creations. Sometimes the flavors he tried didn't mix well, but she always drank them anyway. He seemed happy behind the counter, making new things. She'd suffer through a bitter lemonade and espresso every once in a while if it kept a smile on his face.

"I've been working up a new one, actually. It's like a sour cherry scone but in a latte."

She grinned. "Sounds great. And could I do a croissant, too?"

"Sure thing. Warmed?"

"Yes please."

He always tried to fight her about paying.

"I'll take it out of my paycheck. It's only fair: you pay most of the bloody rent!"

So, instead of fighting back at him, she always left him a generous tip in the jar.

Once she'd ordered, she headed towards the back to her usual table to set up shop. Simon brought over the drink and the pastry a few minutes later, slipping into the seat across from her. He looked properly knackered, so she offered him some of her latte.

"Long day?"

He nodded and set the cup back down. "It's just the whole double shift thing. What are you working on today?"

She moved her laptop so he could see what she was working on. "A presentation for my political science class. It's about the Trump Administration."

He furrowed his brow, flipping through her slides. "You've got a lot of Tweets in here. Is your professor going to be pissed that it's not, like, 'a scholarly source?'"

"Don't think so. She likes me, anyway. Plus, she told us to make them engaging since we'll be presenting them to the introductory course. What's more engaging than his ridiculous Tweets?"

Simon laughed.

Even though she felt a bit like a prick for even thinking this: it felt good to have Simon's attention. Normally he was so wrapped up in his self-defeating thoughts and behavior that he could barely look around, let alone ask her about her day. She didn't mind because she knew that he was still healing, but it felt good to have a stupid conversation about her political science class. It took her right back to when they'd first met and they'd spend all of their time doing homework. He'd just transferred to her school and he was seriously behind. So, instead of letting him fail his classes and repeat the year, she made an effort to tutor him.

She couldn't help but smile now as he made comments about her presentations (just bits of advice and ideas), because it felt so good to have him back.


	10. Ten

It had been a month of friendship with Baz. It was hard, but Simon was getting through it. He wasn't holding his hand whenever he wanted do (or at all). He wasn't kissing him even though he looked so fucking kissable. It was like an impossible dance. Simon wouldn't let himself get too close to him (physically) because he was afraid that the urge to just touch him (anywhere, it didn't matter where, exactly) would become too strong and he wouldn't be able to resist it anymore. Whenever they went out to eat, Simon made sure to sit on the other side of the table instead of by his side. Whenever they watched telly or a film, he would sit on the other end of the sofa. And, whenever they said goodbye, he would allow himself a curt hug before leaving.

It was hard, but Simon was getting through it. It all felt like it would be okay because at least he had Baz back in his life. At least he could still see him and talk to him and hear about his day. It felt like they were proper boyfriends again-–boyfriends who didn't kiss each other. But that was fine. (Sometimes. Other times, it made Simon feel like he was being set on fire).

Today, Simon didn't have class and he didn't have work. He had the whole day free, so he and Baz made plans. Baz was on his way over to pick him up at the moment, and Simon had been ready for about twenty minutes. He was fiddling with his hair nervously (he'd just gotten it cut the other day. It still felt itchy) because he knew that he wanted to open up to Baz about everything. He'd been so impossibly good at taking whatever snippets of information Simon gave him, but Simon wanted to give him all of it. He wanted to tell him about the letters and he wanted to tell Baz about that night in the bathroom. Maybe, if Baz hadn't seen the scars (if he didn't keep noticing them every time Simon wore short sleeves) he wouldn't have wanted to bring it up at all. But Baz had and now every fibre of Simon's being was telling him to just tell him the truth.

He was worried that Baz might spiral if he told him. He was worried that Baz might blame himself for what Simon had done, which wasn't the case, so Simon had tried to think of the exact wording he would use when he told him. Of course, his rehearsed lines would probably go right out the fucking window the moment he looked into Baz's grey eyes, but it didn't matter. At least had something to go off of, even if he had to go a bit off-script.

Baz was at the door, knocking. Even his knock was fucking posh (somehow). Simon was at the door in seconds, throwing it open with a huge, obnoxious smile on his face. Baz smiled back and handed him something.

"Your post was being delivered when I came in. Though I'd give you the royal, door-to-door service," he said, handing Simon the pile of mail.

"Can you toss it in the rubbish bin? I have to go take the scones out of the oven."

He shut the door and hurried over to the oven to check on his scones, leaving Baz by the door.

"You've got a letter in here, Snow. Do you want it?"

Simon peeked his head around the doorframe from the kitchen. "Who from?"

Baz set the rest of the mail down on the coffee table and went to meet Simon in the kitchen. "There's no name, but it says it's from Burley."

Simon tried not to show the horror in his face, so instead he busied himself with moving the scones from the cookie sheet to a platter. "Oh. You can toss it."

Baz moved towards him, leaning against the counter. He was turning the envelope over in his hands, running his fingers across the stamp. "Snow," he said, trying to get Simon to look at him.

Simon huffed and put his hands on his hips. "Just toss it, Baz. Really. It's fine."

"You promised that you'd talk to me. That you'd be honest with me."

"This isn't something that's bothering me. It's just a stupid letter."

Baz didn't seem to believe him. "Is it the same letter that's bothered you before?"

"If it's got you in such a snit, why don't you just read it?"

This wasn't really how Simon had planned on talking to Baz about everything, but at least Baz would have proper context if he read it. Simon was pretty sure that it would be similar to the last two he'd received from the mysterious sender in Burley––something about his parents and how this person, whoever they were, would really like to meet him before disclosing any "sensitive" information.

He watched Baz from the corner of his eye as he continued to move scones from the sheet to the platter. Baz's face was unreadable, but his eyes were narrow like he was closely examining every letter on the page. Simon instinctively reached up to run his hands through his curls. He was nervous about the letter, if he was being honest. He should have read it first before he allowed Baz to read it, just in case it wasn't the same as the two that had come before it. Or, maybe he should have just told Baz why he didn't want to read the letter. It was too late now, though.

Baz sighed and set the letter down on the counter. "You haven't replied?"

"Why should I?"

"Because it's about your family, Snow. Don't you want to know about them? About your parents?"

Simon shrugged. "Dunno. I used to, y'know. It used to drive me mental to think about."

He wanted to reach out and take Baz's hand. He wanted to reassure himself that Baz was there and that he cared. Sometimes, recently, Simon found himself needing physical contact to anchor him. Penny was always good for a hug, but it felt too complicated with Baz. He didn't want to push the boundaries of their friendship by asking for a cuddling session.

Baz must've noticed what Simon wanted (he was being rather obvious by staring at Baz's hand) because he tentatively grabbed Simon's hand and wrapped it up in his. Baz's skin was cold, but that was okay. It felt right. It felt like coming home. Simon felt himself relax almost instantly.

"What did it say?"

"Do you want to read it?"

Simon shook his hand and lead Baz over to the sofa. "No. Just...can you tell me?"

They were still holding hands.

"They, whoever they are, want to meet you. They want you to come to their cottage in Burley, or meet somewhere nearby, to talk to you about your parents. Is that what the other letters have said? Or is this a new invitation?"

"They've both said the same. I never write back. I don't know how they keep getting my address, anyway. I got the first one when I was on campus at uni for the first year."

Baz started rubbing circles against the back of Simon's hand. "I shouldn't have read it," Baz whispered. "I'm sorry. It was a complete violation of your privacy and––"

"I wanted you to read it," Simon said. 

Baz raised an eyebrow. "Okay, well, not really. I wanted to tell you, though. I wanted to tell you about the letters and..." he took a deep breath, closing his eyes so he could feel the weight of Baz's hand in his own. "And I want to tell you about my arms."

Baz's whole body went rigid and his fingers stopped moving. "Simon," he said, a bit like it was a warning. "You don't have to."

"I know. I just...it's not fair for you to not know. Penny knows, and you've got a right to."

Baz didn't say anything, but Simon could tell that he was just trying to give him some time to put his words in order. He was grateful for that. Baz knew him so well.

"Before I explain, I want––you need to know...it wasn't your fault. How I am now...it's not your fault. I need you to promise me that you won't, like, blame yourself."

"I promise."

Simon urged himself on. "It was a few months after we'd broken up. I'd just gotten my second letter from, well, whoever keeps sending 'em. And it was fine for about a week, you know? I just pressed it down. I tried not to think about it. But then I woke up in a panic in the middle of the night. I'd had a nightmare about...well, about everything I guess."

Baz squeezed his hand. "What everything? What was it?"

Simon looked down in his lap, unable to meet Baz's gaze. "It was the night we broke up. You were––yelling at me. Screaming. It was everything you said and worse. And then Penny chimed in. And Agatha. And these two other people who I think were supposed to be my parents. And I just...I went off. I woke up and I think I was still half-asleep or something because I don't remember grabbing...I just wanted it all to stop. Penny found me. I hadn't even realized...I hadn't really wanted to..."

He didn't know what else to say, so he just let his voice fade off. He still couldn't bring himself to meet Baz's gaze. He didn't want to know what he'd find there. He didn't want to face him. Instead, he played with a dangling thread on the bottom of his jeans and waited for Baz to say something. To storm out, maybe. Baz removed his hand from Simon's so Simon closed his eyes and waited to hear the door slam shut. To hear Baz leave and never come back.

He heard a sniffle.

He opened his eyes and saw Baz sitting there, his head in his hands. He was crying. Christ, Baz was crying. Simon didn't know what to do. Did Baz want him to comfort him? Surely not––he was the reason Baz was crying. But then Baz wasn't just crying––he was sobbing. Big sobs heaved through his narrow form. He sounded like he was struggling to breathe.

So Simon wrapped his arms around him, pulling Baz against his chest. Baz's hands scrambled to wrap around Simon's torso, his fingers digging into Simon's shirt and pulling the fabric into his grasp. Simon rubbed big circles on Baz's back with one hand and combed through Baz's hair with the other.

"It's alright," he whispered into Baz's hair. "I've got you."

He kept mumbling things like that until Baz's breathing had slowed and his body had stopped heaving. Baz said something into Simon's shirt, but Simon couldn't make it out. He pushed Baz off of him, just so that he could see Baz's face. He wiped tears from under Baz's eyes with the pad of his thumb. Tears he'd put there.

"I couldn't hear you."

Baz put his hand against Simon's chest, right over his heart. "I said that I'm sorry."

"I already told you––"

"I know. I'm just...I'm so sorry that you had to go through that. I wish that––"

"Don't. You can't change anything that happened. Don't wish."

Baz nodded and rested his forehead against Simon's. "I'm glad you're still here."

"Me too," Simon whispered.

And, for the first time in a long time, he actually meant it.


	11. The Letters

Dearest Simon,

It feels strange. Writing you this letter. It's even stranger to think that you're a grown man now with friends and school and a life.

The first and only time I saw you, you were so young. You had just been born. I thought that you might have cried––most babies do, I was told––but you didn't. You grabbed onto your mother's finger and looked up at her with your big blue eyes. She wasn't long for this world when you were born. I knew that she tried to hold on because it was in her nature to fight, but she couldn't. You only cried when she died. At least you got to be in her arms––to feel her loving touch when she placed a kissed upon your head and said, "My rosebud boy." That's what she would have called you, I think.

My Rosebud boy.

I don't quite know why I'm writing this letter. I think, now that you're eighteen, that I'd like to be able to meet you. I understand that you don't know who I am, but I just wanted to do something. When your mother died, something died within me, too. She was my best friend, you know. The only one who would listen to my rants and my ideas about the world and how to right all of the wrongs.

I caused a lot of those wrongs, I think. I caused a lot of wrongs with you. I was so young then. So naive. I didn't know how to handle her death. I suppose I could have tried to help you––to keep you close. But, whenever I looked into your eyes, I saw her's and something broke inside of me. It wasn't your fault––not really. I was broken. Her death...it broke me in ways that I cannot even begin to describe to you.

I live in a red cottage in Burley. It's away from the rest of the world. Your mother loved it here. She loved seeing the sky stretch out for miles on end. She loved the breeze and the open land. She kept chickens in my backyard. I didn't mind. They seemed to make her happy.

Nothing made her as happy as you did.

If you want to visit, my address is on the letter. I'm home all the time these days because going out seems like such a burden. A luxury I shouldn't be allowed to have. I would like to meet you, if you ever feel so inclined. I'd like to tell you about your mother and her passion for life. Her passion for you.

With all my love,

D.M. 

Dearest Simon,

It was too hot today. I hated it, but your mother...well. She would have gone out in a sundress and strappy sandals and just bathed in it. It would have kissed her and turned her skin golden brown and turned her hair even more blonde.

I wonder if you look like her. I wonder if...

She was beautiful. I mean, she was physically beautiful, but she also had a beautiful soul. She was beautiful through and through. She was the most powerful person I'd ever met. Strong-willed and stubborn when she wanted something enough. She was loyal to a fault––too loyal to me even though I didn't deserve her. I never deserved her. She deserved the whole world, you know. You did, too.

I'm sorry for what happened to you. I'm sorry that you've spent your life in care homes and bounding from one place to the next. I'm sorry that you never got to know you mother like I did.

I think that you're probably like her. How could you not be? I'm sure that you're just as loyal, just as loving, just as good. She was always so good. Not just good to me, either. She was good to everyone. Good to everything.

One of her chickens hurt its wing once. She was pregnant with you––far too pregnant to be fussing around with the damn chickens––but she did it anyway. She got down on her knees and tried to mend its wing. I told her that it didn't matter if its wing was hurt because it wasn't like chickens flew, but she told me that it was in pain. I don't know how she knew it.

Sometimes, I think that it was why she stuck with me. I was a right prick sometimes. I would shut myself off from the world and focus on my studies and my writing. But your mother stuck with me. Mended me. I was so broken when I found her and she tried to fix me.

I'm still at the red cottage in Burley. I still feed the chickens, even though I hate the damned things. I still want to meet you, if you'd like. I have so much that I'd like to tell you.

With all my love,

D.M.

Dearest Simon,

It hurts me to write to you.

It's not your fault. I don't want you thinking that.

It's just that writing to you feels like I'm writing to your mother somehow. And it...well, it breaks my heart. Maybe I'm holding on. Maybe I'm hoping that writing these letters, even if you never read them, will help me heal.

I wish you could have met her. I wish you could have felt how much love she held for you. Do you feel it, Simon? Do you feel it pooling in your belly like an endless well?

I suppose you don't. I wonder if, after everything, you know what it feels like to be loved. I suppose that your unusual childhood might have complicated things for you in that regard, but I hope that you're capable of love. Of being loved. It's hard to let yourself be loved. It's hard to...

These are things I'd rather tell you in person. I'm still at the red cottage in Burley. It needs a new coat of paint, but I can't bring myself to paint it. Your mother painted it last time, and I think that painting over her work would be like painting her away.

I want to meet you. I want to see if you look like her. If you're like her in spirit.

With all my love,

D.M.


	12. Eleven

"I don't know, Wellbelove."

They were in Baz's flat. Agatha was on the couch (an expensive, black-leather one) and Baz was standing in front of her, running his fingers through his hair. He was so exasperated––so beyond done with this conversation. They'd had it a few times now, but Agatha never really got it. She never understood that he was trying everything in his power to make her see that he wasn't right for her in every conceivable way. Instead, she pushed him. She wanted to know why he was the way he was and how she could try and fix it.

"Is it because of Simon? Do you think it'll ruin your friendship?"

"Crowley, no. It's not that."

The truth is that the mere thought of sleeping with you makes my blood boil. It makes me want to throw up. The truth is that I'm helplessly and incurably gay and in love with Simon Snow even though I can't have him. The truth is that I hate having to date you because you're everything that he's not.

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "I'm so tired of having to talk about this, Baz. I'm so tired of feeling like you don't want me."

It had been fine to pretend that they were dating. It had been fine for Baz to take her hand in his when they were in public. To kiss her cheek. To kiss her chastely on the lips when he needed to. It hadn't been good, but it had been doable. He could manage it for his father's sake, if he had to. But making out with her or making love to her seemed like crossing a line. If he crossed that line, would he ever really be able to go back?

It wasn't like he was afraid that she'd "turn him straight" or what have you, but he was afraid that if he slept with her...she'd want more. She would never stop wanting more. If he slept with her, she would want to say "I love you." If he said "I love you," even through gritted teeth, she'd want to move in with him. If he let her move in with him, even if it killed him on the inside, she would want him to propose. If he had to propose, even with the shittiest ring he could find, she would want to get married. 

Baz didn't want to marry her. He didn't want to have to do any of those things. With Agatha, anyway.

But he couldn't exactly tell her all of that. He couldn't just sit her down and explain that their entire relationship had been a hoax––a way to please his father. If he did that, she would be outraged. Rightly so. She would run off and tell her father who would run off and tell Baz's father and...it'd be a proper mess.

"I have intimacy issues," he tried.

She glared at him. "Do you want me, Baz?"

"You're beautiful," he said. It was true. (He was gay, not blind). Agatha was, objectively, gorgeous. Her hair was always perfect and she was graceful and she had this air of independence about her that was absolutely delightful. If things were different, Baz thought that they might've made good friends. She was easy to talk to, even if he hated to admit that. He could see everything that Simon had seen in her all that time ago––her kindness, her grace, her beauty, her perfection.

"That doesn't answer my question."

He sighed. "Who wouldn't want you?"

"You don't," she whispered.

Baz needed to protest. He didn't want to fight for her, but he knew that he needed to. He needed to lie and tell her that she was everything he'd ever wanted and more. He needed to talk to her like she was Simon and this was his one chance to right all of his wrongs.

"I think I need some space," she said, not giving him the time to come up with anything to say.

"You––"

"Just for a bit. I think that we both need to think about what we really want out of this relationship."

He nodded, trying not to look to eager. "If that's what you want."

"It is. I'll...I'll talk to you after Christmas. You were going to go to Hampshire anyway, so we can meet up and talk after the holidays. On Boxing Day, if that works. I think it'll help for us to be apart, just for two weeks. Just to really think things through."

She got up and kissed his cheek and left without another word.

He was too dumbfounded to say anything, but that was alright. She didn't seem to mind, anyway. She had already decided what she wanted and there was nothing Baz could say or do to change her mind.

Well, he probably could have just had sex with her. But that didn't really seem like an option.

When she left, he felt this weight fall off his chest. He knew that they'd have to talk in two weeks, but that felt like forever away. And, even though there was the distinct possibility that Agatha would decide that they should still be together, Baz couldn't bring himself to see that possibility. Instead, he felt an overwhelming happiness flow through him. It filled him up. He was practically overflowing with it.

So, to celebrate, he called the one person that would always pick up: Simon.

"Baz?" Simon said, picking up on the first ring.

"Are you busy? Can you talk?"

There was some sort of shuffling in the background. "Yeah, I'm free. What's up?"

Baz couldn't help but smile, even before he even told Simon the news. "Agatha was just here."

"Oh. I––"

"No, Snow. She said she wanted space. She doesn't want to talk to me until Boxing Day."

Simon didn't say anything for a moment.

Maybe Baz had read this all wrong. Maybe Simon didn't have feelings for him anymore. Maybe all this was was friendship. But, Baz knew that he felt something. He felt it every time they hugged and Simon pulled away with a blush across his cheeks. Every time their hands brushed accidentally. He felt it especially when Simon had told him about how he got those scars on his wrists––in the way that Simon had pulled Baz into him and babbled calming things into his hair. In the way that he had wiped off Baz's tears with his thumb.

"Snow? Are you there or have you had a heart attack? Should I dial 999?"

"S––I'm here. I just...I don't know what to say. Are you...you seem happy about it."

"Of course I'm happy about it. I feel like I was diagnosed with cancer and healed magically overnight. I feel like I could hang the moon and stars."

"That's good then. I'm...I'm happy for you."

"Can you come over?"

"When?"

"Now, preferably. Or should I have worked this wonderful fake-breakup around your busy schedule?"

"I mean, I can come now. I just––yeah. I'll be there in about an hour. I'm in the middle of decorating a cake."

"Bring the cake," Baz said.

I'm want to have my cake and eat it, too.


	13. Twelve

When Simon finished the cake, he put it in one of the plastic cases that Penny had purchased for him ages ago. Then, when the cake was ready to go, he made his way over to Baz's flat.

He wasn't sure why Baz wanted him to come over. At first, when Baz said that Agatha wanted to take space, Simon thought that Baz should be sad about it. He would have been sad about it, had the roles been reversed. So the glee in Baz's voice had thrown him off at first before he remembered that Baz really wasn't interested in Agatha—that he didn't want to date her at all. And...well. Simon thought that the excitement in his voice and the invite to come over might have been because Baz thought that, with Agatha out of mind, he and Simon could start up again. Be proper boyfriends.

Of course Simon wanted that. He wanted to be able to hold Baz's hand and kiss him until he couldn't see straight. It had been so good to be friends with him again—to have Baz become a constant in his life again. But he decided that this break with Agatha didn't mean that they could get back together. It crushed him to realize this, but it was what had to be done. First of all, a break didn't mean broken up. Agatha could very well decide that they should stay together when they met up on Boxing Day. And, second of all, there was still Baz's father to worry about. Simon knew that it wouldn't be right for either of them if things had to carry on in secretive they last time.

If they were going to get back together, Simon wanted it to be for real.

So, when Simon got to Baz's flat a little while later, he knocked on the door and tried to keep all of those thoughts in the front of his mind. He needed to let Baz know that this "space" didn't mean that they could be together again.

But Baz's sparkling eyes and corner-of-the-mouth smile almost made all of Simons thoughts and decisions fly out the fucking window. He looked so beautiful—so happy. Simon didn't want to take that away from him.

"Hey," Simon said, feeling incredibly awkward.

"Hey. I'm glad you could come on such short notice," he replied, letting Simon into his flat.

It still felt weird to be in Baz's flat. Simon had never been to it when they were dating, so being in it after felt like some sort of violation. Which was, he realized, completely ridiculous, but he still felt like he was guilty whenever he walked in. This was Baz's space—the one place where he didn't have to hide from anyone. And he was letting Simon into it with open arms. He was encouraging him to come in, even.

"Uh, here's the cake," Simon said, holding it out.

Baz grinned and took it, leading Simon into the kitchen. "Quite a masterpiece, Snow. Ever thought of competing on The Great British Bake-off?"

In times like these, Simon couldn't tell if Baz was trying to compliment or insult him. The cake didn't look that beautiful (Simon was shit at decorating) so it seemed more likely that it was an insult. Then again, he did have that dopey, totally blissed smile on his face. Baz was softer when he was in a good mood.

"So...Agatha?"

Baz grinned. "Agatha indeed. I couldn't quite believe it at first, but when it finally sunk in, I was overjoyed. Tea?"

Simon nodded. It seemed that Baz already had the kettle on so he poured Simon a cuppa immediately.

"What happened? What made her want space?"

He blew on the tea, just to make sure it wouldn't burn him, and took a sip. It was good, but it wasn't as sweet as he would have liked it. Sometimes he thought that Baz's habit of drinking Earl Grey without any sugar or milk might have been slightly treasonous.

"It's the same fight we've always had, I suppose. She wants to have sex and—"

Simon choked on his tea.

Baz quirked an eyebrow at him.

"She—you—what? Sex?"

The thought of Baz and Agatha having sex hadn't even crossed Simon's mind. He saw them kissing and holding hands on the front page of newspapers sometimes, but he never let his mind wander to thoughts of what might have happened behind closed doors. But, they were a couple (even if it was completely one-sided) so it seemed reasonable that they did, in fact, have sex. Simon tried to picture it for a moment but it made him want to throw up, so he quickly erased the thought from his mind. If he thought about it anymore...he didn't want Baz to talk him through a panic attack.

"We haven't, if that's what you're thinking. I'm completely gay, remember?"

Simon nodded, unsure of what to say.

"Anyway, I'm glad she did it. It feels...well it feels like I can do anything. And I don't know what your thoughts are about all of this, or even about me for that matter, but I'm still...well, you can have this," he said, gesturing to himself. "If you want it."

"I do," Simon said softly.

Baz raised his eyebrows.

"But I can't. We can't."

"Snow, I don't understand. If you want this, and I want this, I don't understand what we're holding back for."

"Just because you're on a break doesn't mean you're broken up," Simon argued. "And it wouldn't be fair for you to cheat on Agatha. Even if you don't like her."

Baz sighed. "I suppose that's true, but what if we just assume, just for a moment, that Wellbelove is through with me? What then, Snow?"

Baz was leaning across the counter. He was so close to Simon—if he moved just a little bit, his lips would be against Baz's. They would be kissing.

"Then I would finally be able to kiss you," Simon whispered. "Which is what I've wanted to do since I met you. Even when we broke up. I drove myself mad thinking about kissing you."

Baz leaned in more. Their noses brushed.

"Then what are you waiting for, Snow?"

Baz kissed him then. Softly. Slowly. Simon allowed himself to relish in it for a moment—in the feeling of Baz's cool lips against his own. In the feeling of finally coming home. But then he pulled himself away.

It wasn't right. Not for him, not for Baz, not for Agatha. This was all wrong—it wasn't how it was supposed to be.

"I can't," Simon whispered. "We can't. I thought—I think that I can't do this when you're not...when you can't be mine. Not really."

Baz sucked in a breath and moved away.

Simon missed him already.

"Because of my father?"

Simon nodded.

"I...My apologies, Snow. Truly. I know that it's not fair for you—that none of this is fair for you—"

"It's not fair for you either. Or for Agatha."

Baz nodded.

"When you guys are done for good, and if you tell your dad...Baz, I really mean it. I still...I'm still totally in love with you. And it's killing me that we can't have this."

Baz's eyes were blown wide in surprise. "You said it," he marveled. "You said—"

"I love you," Simon said again. "I do. It's taken me a while to—I had to figure things out. But I do."

"I love you, too, Simon. More than anything."

Simon smiled at him. "Good. Then we can wait for this to be right. For it to be good for everyone. I'll wait for you, Baz. I'll always wait for you."


	14. Thirteen

Penelope hated the fact that she had to leave Simon for Christmas, but there was simply no room at her house for him.

"Are you sure that you'll be okay?" She asked for the hundredth time, zipping up her bag. Simon had been helping her pack everything she needed for the next two days including gifts for her family (which Simon had also helped her shop for).

"It's only, like, four days, Pen."

She sighed and sat down on her bed.

Normally, leaving Simon for Christmas wouldn't have been such a big deal, but this past year made her feel like she shouldn't leave him alone. If she had the room in her house, she would have loved to drag him along with her. They would have make cookies and had shit wine until the sun came up and everything would have felt like it did when they were young. But there was so plausible way for her to bring him this year, and it broke her heart. She would only be gone for three nights, but that was two nights longer than they had been apart in the past two years. Ever since they moved in together, they were always together. It would be weird to be without him, even though he wouldn't be too far.

"I know," she said. "I'm just worried about you. What are you going to do on Christmas?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Watch films and eat sweets, probably. Might take a shift at the cafe."

"You can't work on Christmas!" she protested.

"Someone has to. And I don't mind. I'm in a good place, yeah?"

It seemed like he was in a good place. He still had Bad Days, but Penny doubted that those would ever go away completely. All things considered, he was doing well. He'd even stopped going to therapy every week––he'd switched it over to every other week. He smiled more. He was more present.

"Yeah, I guess. You know you can call me, right? For anything."

"I'll be fine, Pen. I swear. And I'll call if I need anything."

He smiled at her in reassurance.

"Nicks and slicks, I almost forgot your gift!" she said, leaping out of bed to find the shottily wrapped gift she'd tucked away under her bed.

Simon grinned at her as she held it out to him. It wasn't much, just a small token of her appreciation for him, but she was still excited to see his reaction.

He tore off the wrapping paper and gasped, turning the object over in his hands. It was a small clear box with two pictures inside of it. On one side, there was a picture that had been in their school year book the first year they met. They were both so small and happy––not a care in the world. On the other side was a selfie from the past year when Simon had fallen asleep crying on Penny's shoulder. He looked peaceful in the photo, though, and Penny had her arm wrapped around him to keep him safe from whatever demons had been haunting him at the time.

"Pen..."

"Do you like it?"

He looked at her, his eyes brimmed lightly with tears. He grinned and wrapped her up in a vicious hug, conveying all of his thoughts with the embrace. She melted into it, remembering that she wouldn't be able to hug him like this for four days. She closed her eyes and tried to memorize his scent––something fiery but also sweet, like a burnt marshmallow––and kissed his cheek before pulling away.

"I didn't get you anything," Simon said.

"It doesn't matter. This is for both of us, anyway. It should go on display on the counter or something."

He nodded, still turning the object over in his hands. "I'm gonna get you something while you're off having your chaotic Christmas," he promised.

She smiled at him again.

They didn't say goodbye because Penny never liked saying goodbye. Instead, Simon helped her with her bags and gave her a firm hug on the sidewalk outside of their building. He helped Penny into the cab and waved her off as the cab pulled off down the street.

Penny watched him shrink as she drove off and she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong––that she shouldn't leave. It made her stomach twist itself into anxious knots, but there was nothing she could do.

He'll be fine, she assured herself, slumping down in her seat when she couldn't see him in the distance anymore. He'll be fine.


	15. Fourteen

Okay, so Simon hadn't really lied when he said he'd be fine. He thought he would be. There was no reason for him not to be. It sucked that Penny was off with her family for the holidays, and it sucked that Baz had been dragged off to Hampshire to spend the holidays with his family, but Simon was fine. He wasn't worried. He had big plans to binge watch Christmas movies and bake until they were out of flour and eggs. But then, when he was waiting for his first batch of scones to come out of the oven, he got to thinking. He'd been in his room to tidy up––figuring that he should do something slightly productive with his time––and the letter just sort of appeared. He'd totally forgotten about it until he'd been digging dirty clothes out from under his bed.

On instinct, he went to throw it away, but then Baz's words rang through his head.

"Because it's your family, Snow. Don't you want to know about them? About your parents?"

He sighed and opened the letter to read the strange, cursive script.

Do you feel it, Simon? Do you feel it pooling in your belly like an endless well?

He reached for his stomach, closing his eyes. Could he feel it? Could it be the reason why he'd always felt so empty––so hungry? How was it supposed to feel? Like magic swirling inside of him, bubbling up and coming to him if he needed it? He tried to feel something––he focused on letting the feeling take him over––but nothing happened. Then he read the letter again, focusing his attention on the last line where D.M., whoever that was, invited him to come round to the cottage in Burley.

Maybe, just maybe, meeting this mysterious stranger would help him feel...whatever it was that he was supposed to feel. Maybe he could show up in Burley and D.M. would take out an old photo album and tell stories about Simon's mother and her chickens. Maybe seeing pictures of her and hearing about her life would make him feel that love pool inside of him. He recognized that it was entirely possible that going to Burley would do nothing to help him, and it was entirely possible that going to Burley and meeting D.M. would ruin completely, but it didn't seem to matter––not when he had this much hope.

So he looked up trains and buses to Burley and made his way there.

Maybe this wouldn't help him with anything.

Or maybe it would be everything he'd ever wanted.


	16. Fifteen

Maybe, if Baz's mother had still been alive, he would have liked going back to Hampshire for the holidays. But now, without her, it just felt strange to go back. He'd grown up there until his father had sent him off to boarding school, but still. He'd spent every summer, at least, on the property since he was born. He'd spent each of those nights sleeping in the massive, four-poster bed in his room. He'd spent his mornings having breakfast at the round table in the kitchen with Daphne and his siblings (never his father). He'd spent holiday evenings sitting at the mahogany table in the dining hall, eating awkward and delicious feasts with his family.

Still, it felt foreign to be there. He had never felt at home in Hampshire—not in any way that mattered. He felt like a ghost. Like a stranger. When he thought about it, he thought that he might've felt at home here until he realized that he was gay, but even before he realized that, he'd always felt out of place. Up until he was fifteen, he'd spent so much time pretending to be a pompous git that he thought that maybe he just was a pompous git. But then he'd realized that he was gay and everything else sort of clicked into place.

Going back to Hampshire made him relive all of those years of pretending. Those years of lying. It made his stomach churn.

Thankfully, his father was finishing up at the office in London so he wasn't home yet. Daphne was home, of course, along with Baz's younger siblings. Mordelia lunged at him as soon as he opened the door. He dropped his bag and let himself wrap his arms around her in return. She was a feisty little thing and Baz secretly loved her. If there was one thing he liked about Hampshire, it was Mordelia. Daphne was okay, too. She was understanding and accepting of Baz, even though he wasn't sure what she was accepting him for. He hadn't told her that he was gay, but somehow she knew. They never spoke about it, but sometimes she would give him this look like, I see you and I love you.

"I've missed you, Bazzy!"

Baz rolled his eyes at the nickname. Daphne called him Basilton, but his father stuck to Tyrannus. Baz loathed then name, but he never said anything about it. He'd asked Daphne about it once, on a day where he felt more unnerved than usual. Daphne had sighed and explained that Baz's mother, Natasha, had chosen the name and that Baz's father liked to have it live on because she hadn't.

Baz never brought it up after that.

"You've grown," he said, unfurling himself from around her.

She grinned and pointed to a gap in her gum. "And I've lost a tooth!"

He smiled back at her and gathered his things to take them up to his room, knowing that Mordelia would be right on his heels. "Are you excited for Father Christmas to come?"

She pulled at his free hand, taking it in her own. "Of course! Aren't you?"

Baz sighed waited for Mordelia to open the door to his room.

"I'm afraid I haven't been good enough for Father Christmas this year," he explained, stepping into his room and dropping his two bags down on the sofa on the end of his bed.

"Why?"

He unzipped his black leather duffel bag to start unpacking. "I've just made some bad decisions. It's been...it's been a challenging year."

She frowned and jumped up onto his bed, peering at him from under her long lashes. "What'd you do, Bazzy? Did you hurt your girlfriend?"

He frowned. "My—who told you about her?"

"Father did. He showed me the newspaper and told me about her. She looks like a dolly."

Baz didn't really know what to say. If he took a picture with Simon and the papers printed that up, what would his father do? Would he bring it home, slam it down on the table, and insist that his family take turns insulting Baz and Simon? Baz shuddered at the thought of his father mocking Simon.

Simon. Baz wondered if he should text him. He was, admittedly, very worried about Simon. Simon had told him that Penny would be going off with her family for the holiday which meant that Simon would be all alone in that flat. Alone for Christmas...Baz really should text him.

"I...she's part of it, I suppose. It's just a lot."

Mordelia nodded like she knew what he meant. "Father Christmas will come, anyway. And, if he doesn't, I'll share my presents."

"What did you request?"

"A horse."

Baz couldn't help but scoff. "Crowley, Mordelia. Where do you plan on keeping a horse? What do you plan on doing with a horse?"

"I want to ride it," she shrugged.

"You don't know how. And you've nowhere to keep it."

She looked around the room and grinned. "I'll keep it here!"

"You will do no such thing."

Baz smiled at her, feeling an under-developed argument coming from her. She was persistent and stubborn and strong-willed.

This was the only thing that made him feel like the empty mansion in Hampshire was really his home.


	17. Sixteen

It took Simon a little over three hours to get from his flat in London to the cottage in Burley. It probably would have taken less time if the buses ran on a better schedule and if he'd been able to peg a taxi sooner, but it didn't matter in the end because at least he made it. And now he was standing outside the small, red cottage with his hands in his pockets and his chin up and forward. 

The paint looked like it needed to be freshened up––it was chipping and pulling under the window sills and at the corners and edges. The grass was overgrown and the thatched roof looked like it might cave in any day, but this was it. This was the address, the red cottage, that D.M. had put on the letters. There were no Christmas lights or decorations outside which seemed okay because Simon wasn't sure putting lights in the overgrown trees would have done much to liven the place up. 

There was light in at least two of the windows, so someone was home. Simon took a deep breath and trudged up the small, moss-ridden stone pathway up to the front of the house. The front door was chipped, too, like it had needed to be replaced ten years ago. The knocker was tilted and broken and there were at least six newspapers laying discarded in the long tufts of grass off the pathway. He furrowed his brow and found a doorbell obscured by a long, twisting tree branch and pressed it. 

He could hear someone acknowledge the bell so he combed his fingers through his hair and straightened his scarf, trying to look presentable as he waited. The door creaked open and a middle-aged woman poked her head out of it. She looked tired––Simon could see it in her eyes. Her hair was reddish but turning grey at the roots and her nose was like a small bauble. Her lips were pursed in a thin line as she looked at him up and down, trying to decide who he was.

"Hi," he smiled, wondering if this woman was D.M. He'd always pictured the mysterious writer to be his mother's best friend from some posh, all-girl's boarding school. The way they wrote made it clear that they had been taught properly––taught to write in elegant cursive writing with strong word choices. Simon's own handwriting was child-like and barely legible. 

"Can I help you?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm Simon. Simon Snow? Are you––"

"Simon Snow?" the woman asked like she'd never heard the name before. 

He pulled the letter out of his pocket and waved it in front of her face. "I kept getting these letters––"

Her eyes widened. "Simon," she grinned. "Of course. You...come in, come in." 

She moved out of the door frame and let Simon step inside, closing the door behind him. 

Maybe, at some point, this house had been nice. It still looked nice in its own way, but everything was coated in a layer of dust. There was a small table by the door with dusted over picture frames and a bowl with keys in it. It was dark, too. Like turning the light on was an after-thought.

"I––are you D.M.?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm his friend."

Simon quirked an eyebrow. "His? I thought D.M. was a woman?" 

She laughed a soft, half-laugh. It sort of reminded him of Baz in a way. It sounded like she was only half interested in what he was saying or like she was pretending not to be interested. Like she was holding herself back. 

She took his elbow and led him out of the small entry room and into the kitchen. "Davy," she called as she dragged Simon along behind her. The lights were on in the kitchen, but there was no one there. Simon looked around, confused, before he found a figure in the sitting room beyond the kitchen counter. 

The telly was on, playing some sports game, and there was someone sitting in a big chair facing the screen. Simon couldn't see the figure's face (or really anything of them) but he saw a big hand clenching a bottle of cider around the neck like the person was trying to wring it. 

"What is it, Elizabeth?" 

"You have a visitor, dear."

The man, Davy, presumably, scoffed and took a swig of his cider. "Not interested." 

She let go of Simon and gestured for him to stay put. Simon nodded and watched as she made her way over to the man in the chair, standing in such a way that she blocked his view of the telly. 

"It's Simon," she whispered. 

Simon could still hear her, though.

"Who?"

"Simon Snow," she said. 

The man was on his feet in an instant. "What? How?"

Simon looked at the man's profile, trying to study it. He had narrow eyes and brown hair and a terrible mustache. He was wearing all green which Simon found both odd and repulsive––he looked a bit like a pedophile version of Peter Pan or Robin Hood. From the side at least, he looked like he might have been handsome at some point (before the facial hair choice), but now all he looked was drained. And a bit like he had driven himself to madness. 

"Your letters," the woman said.

"I never sent those letters. I wrote them years ago, Elizabeth. What gave you the right to find and send them?"

Simon felt like he should leave, but since he had come all this way, he felt like he owed it to himself to see how all this played out. 

"I saw you slipping away, Davy! You've been dying for God knows how long. I thought...I just wanted to save you." She took a quiet breath. "He looks like her. Like Lucy."

Suddenly, Davy's eyes were on Simon and he was crossing the room and coming into the kitchen. Simon, on instinct, moved back towards the counter, bracing his arms on either side of himself as Davy studied him. He swigged his cider and gaped at Simon like he was seeing a ghost. His fingers trailed over Simon's cheeks, his lips, his jaw––before he pulled away like he'd been burned.

"You look so much like her," he breathed. 

"Who? Lucy?"

Davy nodded. "Lucy, yes. Your mother." 

"You knew her. I––you were her friend?" 

Davy cackled and took another sip of his cider. "I was more than her friend. I was...we were everything to each other. We were stars."

Simon had never been good with words, especially in stressful situations. He could never focus on them enough to process their meaning, so he wasn't sure if he was understanding Davy correctly. It sounded like Davy was saying...was Davy his father? 

"Are you––are you my father, then?"

Davy nodded. 

Simon pushed his feelings about this revelation to the back of his mind to worry about later. If he thought about it too much now, he wouldn't get the answers he'd come all this way for. He clenched his fists. "How did––when––why did you give me away? Put me in care homes?" 

"You remind me of her," he said, ignoring Simon's question. "Only she could manage to string her words together. She was thoughtful. Poised. You didn't get that, I see." 

Simon felt his blood boil. "Why didn't you want me?"

Davy shrugged. The woman, Elizabeth, had disappeared. "Does it matter, Simon? You survived. You turned out alright, didn't you?"

"You have no idea what you made me go through!" Simon said, yelling with tears stinging his eyes. "I bounced around from care home to care home. No one ever wanted me. I...I've spent my whole fucking life feeling like it's my fault. That there's something that I did to make everyone hate me..."

"You did," Davy assured him. For a moment, Simon thought he was saying that he deserved love. That he deserved a home. For a moment, Simon thought this was about to become an apology.

"You killed her," Davy sneered. "You tore through her. You killed her. You started killing her from the moment you were conceived. But Lucy...Lucy was an idiot. She said that she was strong enough, but you wouldn't hear it. You took everything from her until there was nothing left. And then you were perfectly healthy and you looked like her and...you took everything from me, Simon. Everything!"

The cider bottle crashed into the cabinet next to Simon's head. Davy was in his space now. Simon could feel his drunken breath hot across his face. 

"I have to go," he whispered, his words tortured and forced. He tried to wiggle himself free. He tried to free himself from this trap but Davy caught his wrist and dug his finger nails into Simon's skin. 

"You ruined my life. You should––"

"Davy, that's quite enough," Elizabeth said, charging back into the kitchen from wherever she'd run off to. She forcefully removed Davy's hand from Simon's wrist and shot Simon a sympathetic look. "I'm so sorry, dear. He's––"

Simon shook his head, holding his wrist in his other hand, trying to soothe the angry skin. "Don't. Just don't. I'm leaving."


	18. Seventeen

Baz was spending his time before Christmas Eve dinner by lounging around in his room and doing everything he could to avoid his father, who was sure to be home soon, when his phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket and pressed pause on the Sherlock episode he'd been watching on his laptop. When he saw it was Simon calling, he smiled and pressed "answer," holding the phone up to his ear.

"Hello, Snow. Happy Almost Christmas," he grinned.

There was a sniffle in the background and Baz's heart stopped. Simon, from what he'd told Baz, was supposed to be at his flat watching Christmas films and making an absurd amount of pastries and scones. And, unless Love, Actually was making Simon cry, or perhaps a batch of scones gone wrong, something bad had happened. They had still spoken after their kiss and conversation after Agatha asked for a break, but it had been different. More...tentative. It was like walking on eggshells these days because they were both pining for each other and there was nothing they could do about it until after Boxing Day. Being in the same room now....it felt a bit too hard. A bit like it was leading up to something. But they weren't sure what exactly that was.

Baz shot up, his body tensing as he waited for Simon to reply.

"Hey, Baz," he whispered.

Even though Baz hadn't actually been there for the tragic events of the night where Simon...he had visualized it enough in his nightmares to have a pretty vivid image of it in his mind. He wondered if Simon was calling because he needed Baz to call 999 for him or if this was some strange sort of good-bye phone call. Baz felt his mouth go dry and his heart thump erratically in his chest.

"What's going on? Where are you? Have you been crying?"

"I...I fucked up."

Baz started pacing around his room. "What does that mean, Snow? Explain. What's happened?"

Baz was loose nerves. His body cackled with anxious electricity as he paced the room in an attempt to release some of the tension and energy. If he didn't find a way to release it, he was afraid it would burn him up from the inside.

Simon took a shaky breath and let out another sob.

Baz's heart ached for him.

"I need a ride. I know you're in Hampshire and you're probably with your family but I don't have enough service to call an Uber and I've been waiting outside for an hour and there hasn't been a single cab––"

"Where are you?"

"In...I'm in Burley."

Burley.

Baz didn't need Simon to elaborate because he knew exactly what that meant. Simon had gone to find the writer of those letters. It was Simon's life and he was, of course, entitled to do whatever he pleased, but he had promised. He'd promised Baz that he would talk to him about this sort of this before it got bad, before he acted on his feelings. And now he was in the middle of nowhere and crying and––

"Text me the address," Baz hissed, shutting his laptop and going to his closet to find a jacket and shoes.

Simon sobbed again. "You're mad at me."

"Of course I'm mad, Snow! You promised me that you would talk to me about this."

He sprinted down the hall.

He took the stairs two at a time.

He bursted into the kitchen and gestured silently to Daphne to let her know that he was leaving and that he would call her later. She nodded, her eyes full of fear and concern.

"I know," Simon whispered. "I fucked up. Don't come. Stay with your family. I don't want to muck up your holiday."

"Fuck my holiday," Baz said, ripping the car door open. "Burley isn't too far. You'll see my car."

He hung up so he could focus on driving and so Simon could send him the address. It came through a moment later and then Baz was off, tearing down the streets like a mad man.

It really wasn't that far, no more than half an hour at a regular, lawful speed. Baz was going far beyond the lawful speed. He zipped down roads and accelerated through turns like he was driving to escape a tornado that loomed behind him. Or, maybe he was driving like he was searching for the tornado. If Simon was a tornado—which didn't seem like much of a stretch because he was an unstoppable force of energy—Baz would have gladly run straight for him. Simon could whisk him up or tear him to bloody pieces of it suited his fancy, but he was not allowed to just...go out.


	19. Eighteen

Simon's tears had subsided by the time Baz's car pulled up, but then they started all over again when Baz lowered his window and glared at him.

"Get in," he sneered.

Simon nodded and got into the car, shutting the door softly behind him.

He wasn't sure how this was supposed to go. Would Baz yell at him? Should he yell at Baz? All he knew was that Baz was mad. He could tell from the way he gripped the steering wheel––he gripped it so hard that his knuckles were turning white. Simon wanted to reach out and grab them—bring them to his lips. He wanted Baz to know that he was sorry, even if he couldn't find the words.

"Baz," Simon whispered. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't...I thought it'd be good."

"And was it?"

His voice was completely devoid of emotion and it sent a shudder through Simon's body.

He shook his head. "It was my dad. The guy who wrote the letters...it was my dad."

Baz gritted his teeth but he didn't look Simon's way or say anything. Simon thought he might throw up. This was all wrong. Baz should have been yelling. Screaming. Anything. Instead, he sat there and said nothing, not even daring to look at Simon.

"What are you thinking, Baz?"

Baz didn't say anything. He put his indicator on and changed lanes.

"Baz."

Nothing.

"Please just talk to me. I know you're mad because I broke my promise, but it's my life. It's my decision. And I'm sorry that I didn't tell you, but I'm hurting and––"

"You still don't get it, do you?"

Simon cocked his head at him.

Baz was going too fast––he was letting his anger set the pace. The car was racing down the road and there were turns coming up and there was a fog rolling in. Baz was going too fast. He needed to slow down or they would crash.

"Slow down," Simon warned.

Baz looked at him, confused, then looked at the speedometer. He rolled his eyes and eased up a bit.

"What don't I get?"

"You act like this is all you––like you've had to deal with this pain on your own. Snow, when you hurt, I hurt. I'm still madly in love with you and every time I get a call from you, I think: this is it. I think that you'll be hurt or dying and I don't know what to do anymore. I thought, if you promised to call me when you're feeling bad about yourself, that I could at least pretend that I was somehow helping. That I was helping to control your pain." He took a breath. "I just want you to see that. I want you to see that you're breaking my heart when you're like this. I want to help you, Snow. I really do. But you have to let me in."

Don't cry. Don't cry.

"Baz––"


	20. Ninetee

"Baz––"

It happened too fast.

What?

The deer just appeared out of nowhere. It came out of the woods on the right. It was a buck. A big one. It tried to leap out of the way, leap over the car, but it couldn't.

Fuck, it's not going to make it.

Instead, it crashed into the windshield on Simon's side.

No...

The glass cracked and suddenly, before Baz could even blink, there were shards everywhere. He could feel them in his legs, in his arms, but he was fine. It hurt, but it was manageable. He could move. He could think.

"Shit," he said.

He peered out to see the deer on the road but he couldn't see it. It was too dark and foggy for him to get a clear visual. Then he started laughing because, fuck, they'd just narrowly avoided death. He turned to Simon to make sure he wasn't too spooked about it, but Simon wasn't there.

Instead, Baz found himself face to face with the deer.

Dead.

Baz launched himself out of the car, ignoring the pain that shot through his body as he moved. He sprinted around to Simon's side of the car to assess the damage––to find Simon. Simon's window was bloody and broken and Simon's forehead had gone clean through it. He could see the blood, he could practically smell it. Simon's eyes were open and staring dead ahead through the place where the window had once been.

He must've been knocked to the side when the deer came through.

Baz opened the door and carefully fished Simon's body out from under the deer.

His eyes were still open, staring straight ahead.

Baz sunk to his knees.

No.

"Simon..." he whispered, combing his fingers through Simon's bloody, matted curls.

No. This can't be...he can't be.

He tried to hold back his tears for Simon. He tried to stay strong.

"Please," he choked. "Love, please wake up. Come on, Simon. You're fine. You're..."

He held Simon's face against his own and felt something flutter on his cheek. He pulled away and saw Simon trying to blink, or maybe trying to focus his vision. Baz smiled at him softly, taking that sign of life to mean that it could be okay because Simon was alive and he would be okay. He could be okay.

"Simon...are you okay?"

It was a stupid question, of course, but Baz wanted him to talk. He wanted to know that he was alive enough to speak and that nothing had been too severely damaged.

Simon tried to laugh but then he coughed instead. His face clenched in pain. "Tip top," he managed with a half-smile. 

"I'm going to call 999," Baz said, realizing that he probably should have done that earlier.

Simon nodded, his eyes rolling back into his head as Baz fished his phone out of his pocket. "Don't," he warned, stroking Simon's cheek. He dialed the number. "You need to stay with me, okay? Stay with me. Please."

"Hello, this is the ambulance," the operator, a woman, said.

Baz sighed in relief. "Hi. I need an ambulance. I'm...I've been in an accident and my friend––"

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't say it.

"Sir, hello?"

"Sorry. We're...we're on Ringwood, I think. In Burley."

Simon coughed again.

"Shh, Snow. It's okay. They're coming to help you, okay? You just...stay with me, okay?"

Simon nodded, obviously straining to keep his eyes open.

"Can you describe the nature of the accident? An ambulance is on its way."

"We––we hit a deer. My friend..."

"Is he conscious?"

"Yes. Barely. He keeps...his head went through the window. The deer landed in his lap."

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"Is he responsive?"

"Yes. Hardly. I'm trying...I'm trying to keep him awake. I don't––please get here soon. I'm not...I don't think there's anything else I can do..."

Simon reached up and squeezed Baz's hand, shooting him a soft smile. "I'm okay," he whispered.

Baz shook his head, disregarding whatever the operator was saying. "You're not okay. You're––"

"I'm just gonna sleep. Just for a minute or two. I'm...tired, Baz. So..."

His eyes started to close again and panic flooded Baz's chest.

"Hurry! Please! He's dy––I can't lose him. Do you––"

There were lights in the distance, flashing erratically. Baz waved his arm frantically, hanging up with the operator in the process. He kept one arm firmly around Simon, holding him tight to his chest.

You'll be okay, he tried to tell him as the paramedics put Simon on a gurney and wheeled him into the back of an ambulance. Baz got in with him, refusing to leave him for a single moment. They hooked Simon up to machines and drips and Baz held his hand, rubbing soothing circles onto it.

I love you and you'll be okay and I'll be here with you, Simon. Don't you dare let go. Not now.


	21. twenty

Penelope was not happy.

She'd been sitting down for dinner with her family when she saw the text from Simon's phone.

To: PENNNN <3

Bunce, it's Baz here. Simon's been in an accident. Southampton General. Get here soon.

She wondered, of course, how Baz knew about this. Had he been with Simon? Had he caused the accident? Penny had to push those thoughts from her mind—had to find a way to get to Simon quickly.

Now she was at the hospital, demanding an explanation from Baz. He looked like shit with little cuts all over his arms and small shreds in his trousers. He was caked in dry blood but it didn't look like it was his. Penny folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, waiting for him to pull himself together and explain what the fuck had happened to Simon.

"First tell me why we're in bloody Southampton when you were supposed to be in Hampshire and Simon was supposed to be in London," she said.

Baz nodded and pulled his fingers through his matted hair nervously. "He called me. He went to Burley, like an idiot, and I had to fetch him."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Burley? Why would Simon go to bloody Burley on Christmas Eve?"

"To find D.M., of course."

Penny was very confused. "Who the fuck is D.M.?"

Baz studied her for a moment like he was trying to piece her together like a bloody puzzle. "Has he not told you about the letters?"

"What letters?"

Baz sat her down and explained everything—the letters, Simon's promise, their friendship, and their kiss. He told her everything that they had been doing and what they hadn't done and what they admitted to each other. Penny was mad (well, maybe mad wasn't the right word, but she was definitely frustrated. Betrayed, maybe) that Simon hadn't told her any of this himself, but when she thought about it, she realized that it made sense. She'd practically torn Simon away from Baz at the party, so why should Simon feel comfortable telling her that Baz was his friend? She felt guilty and ashamed and embarrassed, but also confused. Baz's explanations had all been well and good but it still didn't explain why Simon was in the hospital. At first, she figured that it might've been because D.M., who was Simon's father, according to Baz, got mad and hurt him, but he seemed far too injured for a brawl. Simon could handle himself in hand-to-hand combat. He was a formidable foe.

"So why is he here, Basil?"

Baz sighed and looked down. Penny thought that he might've been embarrassed or ashamed––he certainly looked something. 

"A deer came out of nowhere," he explained, his voice tired and far away. "It went through the windshield into his lap. He...please don't make me tell you anymore of it, Bunce. I can't––it's too––"

Then, without warning, he broke into tears. Big, heavy ones that shook him through. Penny watched him for a moment, completely bewildered and confused, before she tugged him close to her chest and tried whispering comforting words to him. It didn't seem like they were really getting through to him since he was still crying, but she felt him acknowledge them, at least. She could feel them seep into his skin and occupy space in his brain, so she kept going. She whispered half-hearted promises that Simon would be fine (which she didn't know if there was any truth in) until his tears subsided and he was left sniffling and red-eyed and exhausted beyond comprehension. He'd been injured, too, she recalled. Everything must've been catching up with him now and it was draining him. She was sure he would collapse any second. 

"You need to get some rest," she said, brushing a piece of matted hair out of his face. 

He looked up at her and started to protest––his eyes wide and horrified. 

"You need to shower and eat and sleep. You've had a traumatic day and staying here and not taking care of yourself isn't going to help anything. You can give me your number so I can text you if there's any update, but you need to go home and take care of yourself before you can take care of Simon. I know him, and I know that if he sees you looking like this, it'll break his heart."

Baz nodded. "Right. I––I don't know who I should call."

"I'll take you. I borrowed my mom's car."

"No," Baz protested. "Someone needs to be here with Snow."

Penny rolled her eyes. "He's in surgery, likely for another few hours. Plus, your house isn't far from here, right? Hampshire?"

Baz nodded again, seemingly incapable of his normal speech. 

When they got to Penny's car, she didn't know what to say. It felt awkward to just be silent (she hated silences, especially awkward ones) but she had no idea how to carry on––how to pick things up. The last time she had really spoken to him, she'd been chasing him out of her flat.

"So," she said, glancing over at him, "you and Simon?"

He glanced back over at her. "What about it?"

She shrugged. "The last time you were together, it didn't end well. From what I remember of it, you shouted at him until he was curled up in a non-responsive ball."

Baz sighed and leaned his head against the window. "I know. And I––I feel absolutely terrible about it. I didn't mean any of it, either. I just...I love him so much so when he said he wanted to end it––"

"You know that it broke him, right? Leaving you?"

"I know. And that hurts, too. Knowing that we were both miserable for no reason. But now––"

Penny fought the urge to bang his head against the window to knock some sense into him. "There is no now, Basil. I won't allow it. Simon broke up with you for a good reason and you and Agatha are only on a break."

"What can I do, Bunce? What can...what can I do to be with him again?"

She sighed, changing lanes. "I don't know. I mean, from when I've spoken to him about you, he said that he was upset that you were living a double life. With your father, I mean."

"You think I should come out to him? Tell him about Simon?"

"I can't make that decision for you," she said. "But if you want Simon back, and you love him as much as you say you do, then I think it would be a good start."


	22. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot take: Malcolm isn't a dick!

When Baz woke up the next morning, his father was home. He could practically feel his presence in the home. He groaned and checked his clock––eight thirty. The kids, surely, would have been up for a bit now since they were always so eager to rush downstairs and see what Father Christmas had left for them under the grandiose tree with the ancient ornaments. That means that his father was up, too, to watch the children open gifts. Normally, Baz would have made an appearance, sipped some tea, and opened whatever presents his parents (mostly Daphne) had purchased for him, but today he could do no such thing.

Today, he had to make an appearance and then somehow have a sit-down, serious conversation about his sexuality.

He'd made up his mind about it in the shower when he'd gotten back last night. The calming steam cleared his mind and made him understand that, if he wanted Simon Snow to be his boyfriend again, he would have to talk to his father. He'd also promised himself to not go back to the hospital until he'd gotten all of this over and done with. He needed to get his house in order before he could stomach the sight of Simon in his hospital bed––the sight of Simon lying in a bed with injuries that were Baz's fault.

He sighed and headed downstairs to face the inevitable.

The Christmas morning pleasantries went about as well as Baz had expected them to. Mordelia did not get a horse but Baz did get the Gucci suit he'd been eyeing in a shop window for a month or two. But then, when all of the presents were open and the floor was a mess of brightly colored papers and ribbons, Baz saw his father try to make a bee-line to his office to get away from the cheer and glamor of Christmas. Baz didn't let him get far, though. As soon as his father made his way into the office and tried to close the door behind him, Baz put his foot out, stopping him from closing it. 

"Tyrannus," his father said, raising an eyebrow and staring confoundedly at his son. "What is the meaning of this?" 

"I need to speak with you," Baz said, his foot still in the doorframe. "Can I come in?" 

His father sighed and nodded, opening the door so Baz could step into his office.

It wasn't anything––the office––and Baz was hardly allowed to enter. It was old and hadn't been redecorated since it was built ages ago. The walls were big, built-in bookcases stacked so high with old volumes that the shelves themselves sagged from the weight of them. The mahogany desk was always cluttered with documents and open books and there were two, heavy chairs that sat by the window (where the curtains were always drawn). His father gestured for him to sit in one so Baz did. 

"To what do I owe this...unusual pleasure, Tyrannus?" 

Baz had no idea where to begin so he sighed and clenched his jaw as he tried to think of how to get this out without his father yelling at him or disowning him right then and there. 

"I need to speak to you about matters that regard Miss Agatha Wellbelove," Baz said, hoping that mentioning her name would set his father in a good mood.

He raised an eyebrow. "Miss Agatha Wellbelove? What a wonderful young woman. How is that going with the two of you?"

Now or never.

"I––that's what I wanted to speak with you about, father. She is a lovely girl, but I'm afraid that she cannot be my lovely girl."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

Baz wanted to bang his head against a wall.

Simon, he reminded himself, you're doing this for Simon. Pull yourself the fuck together.

"I'm in love with someone else," he explained. "And, well, they're not––look, father. This person is the best thing that's ever happened to me. For the first time in a long time, I feel happy. I feel free and more myself than I ever have before. So please just keep that in mind when I tell you who they are." 

His father was silent, waiting for Baz to speak. 

"His name is Simon Snow."

"Tyr––"

Baz was standing now, adrenaline pumping through his veins. "And I know that you have publicly announced that you do not agree with––how should I put this––homosexual relations, but I need you to understand that––"

"Stop," his father commanded, suddenly in front of Baz with a hand on Baz's shoulder. Baz looked up into his eyes––eyes that he had not really seen in what felt like forever. Eyes that held so much pain and sorrow and stress and grief. "Tyr––Baz. First and foremost, I am your father."

Baz nodded but he had no idea what that was supposed to mean. 

"If I had known that you were...well, that you were gay, I would not have dared to say, or have you say, anything regarding that sexuality for the sake of my company. And, while I may not understand you and what this means, I want you to know that I will do my best to support you."

Baz was crying, suddenly. His father pulled him into his chest and awkwardly patted his back, clearly unsure of how to handle such an outburst of emotion.

"I didn't want to tell you," Baz whispered into his shirt. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

His father pulled Baz off of him so he could look into his eyes. 

"You, my son, will never disappoint me. You are your mother's child. You are...you are everything good in this world. You are my world. And the fact that you felt that you had to hide this from me breaks my heart because I hoped you knew how much I cared for you. So, if this Simon makes you happy, then I accept him into our family."

Baz was overwhelmed by emotion. He was overwhelmed with the fact that his father didn't raise his voice or get stern with him, but that his father listened. That he wanted to understand. That he had his father's unconventional support and trust. 

"He's in hospital," Baz said. "So I hope you don't mind if I go see him now. I can't...I can't leave him."

His father nodded and gestured to the door, so Baz went. His hand was on the knob when his father called out for him again. 

"Son?"

"Yes, father?"

His father looked nervous. Unsure. It was something that Baz had never seen on him before.

"I...I know I don't say this enough, but I love you."

Baz smiled at him. "I love you too, father." 

When Baz borrowed one of his father's various cars to go Southampton General that day, he found himself smiling. He still had to work things out with Agatha and there was still a chance that Simon wouldn't be okay, but none of that seemed as unlikely as what had just happened in his father's office. Out of everything Baz could have expected or hoped for or wished for this Christmas, his father's love and support was truly unexpected and, in all honesty, it was the best gift he had ever received. 

For the first time in over fifteen years, it finally felt like Christmas.


	23. Twenty-Two

Penelope Bunce was absolutely, positively frazzled. She was stressed and anxious and annoyed at all of the nurses that wouldn't let her in to see Simon. Since she was the closest thing to his family, as she explained, she would be allowed to go in as soon as they gave the go ahead, but for now it was all a waiting game. Nurses came in and gave her stupid, meaningless updates about what was happening, but they never said anything that Penny could cling to. That she could hope for. They talked about how he was in surgery and what was wrong with him, but they never said what was right with him. They never said that he was doing better or that he was fine or that he would, at some point, wake up and be okay. 

So, Penelope Bunce was fucking frazzled.

Baz came in later on Christmas day with a bouquet of red carnations and a sad, nervous smile on his face. Penny jumped up to hug him and bombard him with questions.

"Slow down, Bunce," he chuckled after pulling away from their hug.

Penny wanted to ask him why he brought red carnations, too. She was eyeing them suspiciously while he spoke, which he must have picked up on because he smiled and held them out to her to show her. 

"They mean love, pride, and admiration," he said, letting her get a good look at them. "I would have gone with roses but––"

"I'm not letting you give those to him," she said, folding her arms across her chest. 

He raised an eyebrow. "Why not, Bunce? My father has given us his blessing and––"

"You prick!" she yelped, slapping him across the arm in alarm. "You talked to him? About Simon?"

"Indeed," Baz said, that stupid smile never leaving his face. "He was...supportive. I think he'll need his time to really process it, but it's a good reassurance that he cares and loves me." He took a breath. "Is there...is he still asleep?"

Just as Penny was about to answer him, to say that there had been absolutely no change in Simon's condition and that, quite honestly, she didn't understand half of the things that the nurses told her about it, a nurse with a clipboard walked into the waiting room, scanning the room for someone. 

"Bunce? Penelope Bunce?"

Penny waved her hands frantically, saying, "Here, here!"

The nurse smiled at her and came over. "Simon is awake," she said. "I can show you to his room, if you'd like."

She noticed Baz standing there with his flowers. He looked...he looked hopeful.

"I'm afraid only one guest will be permitted at this time."

As excited as Penny was to go and see Simon and hug him and tell him how much she loved him, she knew that Baz needed it more than she did. The simple reassurance that Simon was alive and awake and okay was all she needed to put her mind at ease and, in all honesty, seeing him in his broken state in a hospital bed might've hurt her because she would have thought about that night that she had to call 999 for him. And, if she thought about that night and made a show of it, it wouldn't be good for either of them. 

She looked to Baz who looked rejected and heart broken, his eyes cast down and his bouquet slumped against his leg in defeat. 

"He can go," she said, putting her hand on Baz's shoulder, shooting him a big grin. 

He raised and eyebrow and started to protest.

"He's his boyfriend. I'll visit him after, if that's allowed." 

The nurse nodded. "Okay, follow me then, sir." 

Penny watched as they walked behind the double doors with a smile on her face.

Simon was well and Baz was about to tell him the good news and Penny could finally breathe again. 

It felt like the best, most miraculous Christmas. 

***

When Baz neared Simon's room, his heart thumped and his throat got tight. He had never been this nervous and excited and scared all at once and the feeling was terrifying. The only thing that kept him breathing steadily was knowing that Simon, an alive, awake Simon, was right beyond the door. The nurse ushered him in and left him alone standing in the doorway with his bouquet of red carnations. He hoped that Simon would see them and understand what he meant with them––that Simon was always, and would always continue to be, his whole world. 

"Baz," Simon grinned from his bed. 

His head was wrapped and his legs were elevated on a mountain of pillows. The blood was gone and replaced with the smell of bleach and disinfectant. Baz smiled at the sight of him and felt himself relax because, against all odds, they were both alive and together and, Baz hoped, still totally and disgustingly in love. 

"Simon," Baz said, moving towards him. It felt like a relief to be able to call him that again.

The only reason he hadn't been at there the minute he left his house was because he had to get flowers and he had to make sure that he and Agatha were over. She was understanding (and a little bit hurt) and accepted the breakup with a certain grace that Baz really appreciated. 

"Are those for me?" Simon asked, gesturing to the flowers. 

Baz nodded and held them out to him, sitting down in the chair beside his bed. "Yes. They're red carnations, if you couldn't tell. I thought you might, I don't know, appreciate it. If you're still into flowers and such." 

Simon studied them for a moment, taking a petal between his fingers and examining it. "I––does this mean...did you...?"

"Yes," Baz said, taking his hand. "I told my father."

Simon looked at him in shock. "You did? How did...was it okay?"

"Yes and yes. He was surprisingly supportive."

Simon smiled at him again and gave his hand a squeeze. "So..."

"So," Baz agreed with a laugh. "First of all, before I say or do anything else, I want you to know how sorry I am for what happened. I should have been paying more attention to the road and I should have slowed down––"

Simon squeezed his hand again and shook his head. "No. Don't...it's okay, Baz. I'm fine. You're fine. That's all that matters. It wasn't your fault." 

"I know. But seeing you...having to haul you out from under the deer––"

"Don't think about it."

"I can't just not think about it!" He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. "You almost died, okay? In my fucking arms. There's not going to be a day where I don't think about it. But there's also not going to be a day where I don't think about you in general, so. I don't know if the accident has changed anything for you, but it hasn't for me. If anything, it's just cemented the fact that I need you in my life. And I want to do right by you, Simon, so I told my father and I broke up with Agatha. So, if you want me, you have me. Completely." 

Simon smiled at him again and yanked his arm, sending Baz forward and basically crashing into him. "I love you, you fucking idiot," Simon said. 

Then, which was by far the greatest Christmas miracle, Simon Snow kissed him.


	24. Twenty-Three

Simon was released after two nights. He felt fine (or as fine as he could, he supposed) when he woke up from his surgery, but they had still wanted to keep him for observation. With the pain meds, the pain in his head had been reduced to a dull throb and the his legs just felt stiff. Logically, Simon knew that when he left the hospital and didn't have the medicine attached to him like he did now, things would be different. The doctors said it would be hard for him to talk for a while, that breathing might be difficult, and that his brain would be fuzzy. Baz and Penny sat by his side on the last day in the hospital, each of them holding one of his hands as the doctor explained all of it. 

"So what can we do?" Penny asked. "Is there some sort of therapy thing or exercise we can help him with for cognitive function and walking?"

The doctor sighed and set down her clipboard. "I would recommend physical therapy for the legs, which should be easy enough, and I can recommend some basic cognitive exercises and I can give you the name of a colleague who could prove useful for this sort of thing. But I'm not sure how much it will help."

Simon felt his breath hitch in his throat.

It had been admittedly difficult for him to think and speak over these past two days, but he thought it was purely circumstantial. His mind had always been a bit foggy, anyway, so he hadn't really thought of it as an issue. Stringing sentences together had always proved difficult, especially if those sentences were in some important context (like talking about his feelings). Struggling with speaking wasn't abnormal, but he figured that the increased difficulty he had experienced since waking up would just go away when he went home and things could get back to normal. 

But now, as the doctor distantly explained something about brain structure and the extent of his injuries, Simon realized that this––the whole physically not being able to think thing wasn't temporary. This thick, impenetrable mind fog was a part of him now. Maybe it could improve with therapy and cognitive whatever, but the truth was that things were different now. He looked nervously to Baz and Penny, his heart thumping inside his chest.

Penny would stick by his side, even if it broke her. He knew that. 

Baz...

Well, he wanted to believe that Baz would stick by him, but Baz was smart. He was an intellectual type who wanted to have thought-provoking conversations and heated, well-argued debates about the uselessness of the letter "J." Before, Simon could hardly keep up with it all. And now...

Baz squeezed his hand as the doctor left to give the three of them a minute to process (or, more likely, for Baz and Penny to explain) what had been said. Breathing was growing hard for Simon now––he could feel a panic attack coming on. He looked to Penny with fear and pain in his eyes, wordlessly explaining what was happening. 

She started doing her breathing exercises with him and Baz rubbed circles on his back slowly to keep his breaths measured and calm. Simon closed his eyes and gave both of their hands a squeeze to thank them. 

"That's just one doctor's opinion," Penny argued. "And she's not even a brain specialist. She hasn't got a clue what she's saying."

To his right, Baz nodded in agreement. "Exactly. We'll see a thousand specialists before we admit defeat, you hear me? And Bunce and I...we're both here for you during your recovery. We'll be there every step of the way both literally and metaphorically and we will love you infinitely until you get sick and tired of us and cast us out."

Simon managed a chuckle but he was still trying to think through and process everything that Baz had said. It was like there was a delayed reaction––like he didn't have a good signal and the words and Baz's mouth weren't synched up. 

Baz must've noticed that Simon's chuckle was fake or he must've noticed the light go out in his eyes when he tried to think about the words. 

"Sn––Simon?" Baz asked, using his free hand to cup Simon's cheek. "Are you okay, love?"

"I...can––Pen, can we have the room? Me and Baz? For...a moment?"

Penny nodded and gave him a quick squeeze before leaving the room.

"Baz," Simon said, turning to face his stupidly beautiful boyfriend (he'd never get used to that). "I...it's okay. If––I know you said you wanted me..."

"I do, Simon."

Simon shook his head. "It's okay if you don't any...anymore. With the way I am. With my brain like––"

Baz cupped his face again, running his delicate fingers across Simon's jaw. "I love you," he said. "I love you when you cry, I love you when you laugh, I love you when you yell at me, and I love you when you just cuddle against me because you don't know what to say. And, honestly, you've never been much for words. I don't mean that to be cruel, love. I just mean that you, Simon Snow, are who you are because of you actions, not your words. Every touch, every smile, every tear, every bloody thing you do shows me who you are. And maybe this doctor is right and maybe you won't have one hundred percent mental clarity again, but it doesn't matter to me one fucking bit. I am so ridiculously in love with you, so if you continue to be in love with me, or if you continue to even tolerate me, I'll stay right by your side and continue to show you how much you mean to me. If you want to go through the therapy, I'll be with you for every triumph and every setback. I adore you for who you are in your entirety––your spirit. And I will always adore you."

Simon kissed him then because he had no words to describe the way that Baz's words made him feel. There was no response suitable to convey the depth of his emotions and the endless pool of love that he felt for Baz in this moment. Baz kissed him back slowly and softly like he was afraid that Simon would break if he pressed too far or gave too much.

When they pulled away, their foreheads resting against each other, Baz smiled at him. "I know, Simon," he said. "I know."

Maybe it would all be okay. Maybe Simon could carry on doing this––kissing Baz, touching Baz––instead of speaking to him. Maybe these physical affirmations were all that they needed to keep themselves together––to keep Simon from falling apart.


	25. Twenty-Four

It had been a week since Simon had come home. Things were better, but the physical therapy was hard on him. It was like each session just reminded him that he was fucked up and that he would be for a while. He never really wanted to go, but Penny always dragged him. Then, when he got back all sweaty and gross, Baz would be there with a kiss and a snack for him. It was...well, Penny and Baz made it manageable. Without them, Simon was pretty sure that he wouldn't get through a single fucking day of this.

Today, after he'd showered from the sweaty physical therapy session and changed into a shirt and grey joggers, Simon collapsed on the sofa next to Baz. Baz smiled at him and pulled Simon close, resting his head on top of Simon's and softly stroking Simon's upper arm with his nimble fingers. 

"Sorry I missed you when you got back," Baz said. 

Simon sighed and nuzzled his face into Baz's neck, closing his eyes and taking in his comfortable and calming scent. "It's okay," he mumbled, his words muffled by Baz's skin.

There had been days, during the past year before he and Baz found each other again, where Simon sat on this sofa and curled around himself. When he curled around himself, holding a pillow to his face, he could imagine that the pillow was Baz. Some of his scent lingered, and even when it faded away, Simon replaced it. He purchased a cologne that he had known Baz to wear and he sprayed it on a few, select objects that he could cuddle and pretend were Baz. But now, today, Simon didn't need to spray the cologne like some sort of maniac. He didn't need to curl up into himself because he could curl around Baz, instead. So he closed his eyes and took deep, measured breaths and let himself become completely enveloped by Baz and the way his arms felt around Simon's waist, the way his fingers felt on his forearm, and the way his neck felt against Simon's cheek. 

"How was it?" 

Simon managed a constricted shrug. "Fine, I guess. Managed to run. For a bit, anyway."

The physical therapy, they'd found, was easier than the cognitive therapy. He had always been a good healer––he liked to blame it on the countless fights he'd had to make quick recoveries from––so he was physically much better than the doctors had expected. Mentally...well. That was another story. 

Baz hummed in approval and planted a kiss into Simon's damp curls. "And the cognitive stuff?"

"Not much. Nothing new."

He could feel Baz make a face that said something along the lines of: I don't believe you. 

"We both know," Simon said, turning and pulling away so he could look into Baz's disbelieving eyes, "that this is it now. It–it won't get better. Not soon."

Baz sighed. "If you believe that, you're thicker than I thought." 

Simon scowled at him. 

"It's a compliment, love. I just mean...well, honestly: you are the strongest person I know. You will overcome this just like you've overcome everything else." 

Simon smiled and rested his gaze back at the window. Snow had started to fall gracefully from the skies, creating a picturesque grey and white image outside the window. Simon sat up abruptly and tugged on Baz's sleeve. 

"It's snowing!"

Baz followed his extended finger and looked out the window. "That it is." 

Simon huffed and rolled his eyes, practically buzzing with excitement. He started getting to his feet (though he was still having trouble with the whole getting up part of moving) so Baz stood and helped him up. "Come on, Baz. Let's go outside." 

"And what? Frolic like children?"

"Yeah. That!"

Baz rolled his eyes. Simon could see him go to war with himself, but he conceded after a moment. "Fine, Snow. You go get your coat and socks and then I'll help you do up your boots."

That's how, fifteen minutes later (because Simon had trouble with the boots, even with Baz helping him) they ended up outside and in the park near the building. It was a small patch of grass with a few trees and bushes, but it sufficed. The snow was sticking to the grass and covering the green in a cold, white, fluffy blanket. There wasn't enough snow for them to have a snowball fight, but Simon decided that there was just enough to attempt a snow angel. So he was on the ground with a huge smile on his face, waving his hands to create wings. He'd tried to do the leg part, too, but it was exhausting and painful so he'd given up. 

"Come on, then," Simon said, sitting up a bit to look at Baz who was still standing and decidedly not frolicking around in the snow with his boyfriend. "Make one, Baz. It'll be fun."

"No," Baz protested. "It'll be cold and wet and I'll get sick." 

"You'll be fine," Simon assured him, reaching over to tug at his pant leg. "I'll make you hot chocolate later. And I'll––I'll cuddle you! And we can watch..."

The name of the show escaped him, like it was too far for him to reach. 

"The Crown?"

Simon nodded and giggled. "Yeah, the queen one. Which you have some––obsession with."

"I like history," Baz argued. 

Simon rolled his eyes and tugged on his pant leg again. "Just...come on." 

Baz (reluctantly) lowered himself onto the snowy ground and started to copy Simon's movements but with the leg part added, too. Simon gave up on his own and watched Baz as he created a fucking perfect snow angel (because there was nothing he couldn't do, apparently). Baz looked beautiful in the snow. He had a certain pinkness to his cheeks and the tip of his nose from the cold and the snowflakes landed in his lovely, long eyelashes and hair. He looked like a painting––like he was too beautiful to be a real person. 

Baz caught Simon looking at him and sat up with a smile on his face. 

"You'll catch flies, Snow."

"You just––ugh. How do you look good doing that?"

"Practise, I suppose. What about you?"

"Me?"

Baz was moving closer to him now, ruining the snow angel with all of his movement. "Snow in the snow," he mumbled, cupping Simon's face with his frigid hand. "And here I was thinking that there was no way we could become more cliché."

He kissed Simon then, gently. Simon melted into the kiss and returned it eagerly. Then Baz moved so he was straddling Simon, which Simon was surely not about to protest––when Simon got a wonderful idea. With his free hand, he grabbed a clump of snow.

"Fuck," he cried out, hissing. "Baz––you––my leg!"

Baz pulled back and looked down (though he was nowhere near Simon's legs, and certainly not on top of them). 

"Si––"

Simon pushed the clump of snow into his face and smiled mischievously. 

Baz, horrified, wiped it off and glared at his boyfriend. "You. Are. Dead."


	26. Twenty-Five

Penelope was not pleased when Baz and Simon came back into the flat soaking wet and red-faced. She had just gotten back from class and had wanted to make a cup of tea and watch some telly before doing her homework. She realized that she had been fucking stupid to think that she would get a moment of peace around here.

"Basil, what did you do?" she asked as the boys removed their boots, coats, and scarves and put them by the front door. 

Baz raised an eyebrow at her. "Why must you assume it was my fault? Snow's the one who insisted that we go outside and play in the snow like fucking children." Simon blushed and folded his arms across his chest, but then Baz laughed and kissed his cheek. "And he's the one who played the leg card so he could smash snow in my face. Who's the plotter now?"

Simon rolled his eyes.

Penny had to admit that they looked happy. Even though she was right pissed that they brought water and ice with them into the flat, she knew that it was a small price to pay for Simon's happiness. Baz was good for him now. Back then, when they first started going out last year, Penny liked him enough but didn't think that it was healthy. It was an intense romance that swept them both off their feet and hardly gave them time to actually know each other. But them being friends after all that time apart helped them understand each other better as people and not just as lips and frantic hands. So now, seeing them so happy (seeing Simon so happy) she didn't quite mind the snow or the water or everything else that came with it. 

"I think I'll go have a shower. I'm fucking freezing," Baz sighed. "Want to join, Snow?" 

"I'm right here!" Penny protested, waving her arms.

Baz chuckled. "I know, Bunce. I was joking. Go have your tea and your telly. We'll get out of your hair." 

Baz walked to the bathroom and shut and locked the door with a satisfying click, leaving Simon and Penny alone. She beamed at him, expecting him to beam right back at her, but his face fell as soon as Baz was out of the room. He reached down to lift up his pant leg, inspecting his leg for something. 

"Alright there, Simon?" Penny tried to hide the concern in her voice. 

He stood upright again. "Yeah. Just...wore myself out a bit. My leg..."

She was at his side in an instant, wrapping an arm around his waist and guiding him over to the sofa. She sat him down on the couch and took a seat next to him, watching him under her furrowed brow.

"Are you okay? Why didn't you tell Baz?"

He shrugged. "Didn't––I don't want him to worry. Was my idea, anyway." 

She frowned at him. "You're an idiot," she said lovingly. 

"I know." 

"Shall I make you some tea?" 

"Yeah, thanks. Should I...what do you want to watch?"

"I was thinking Doctor Who, she said. Been a while, hasn't it?" she replied, getting up to pour him a cup. She grabbed some Advil out of the cabinet, too, just in case. She knew that he probably didn't want to bother her with it, but she could tell that he was in pain. 

"I'll get it up and running," he said. 

When she'd poured his tea, she came back over and handed it to him, along with the pills. He frowned at her for a second before his frown turned into an embarrassed smile. 

"Thanks, Pen. You're the best," he said. He popped the pills into his mouth and washed them down with the tea. 

"I know," she said, curling up by his side, throwing a blanket across both of them. She didn't really care that he was wet because at least he was here both physically and mentally. At least she didn't have to worry about him going into one of his fits where he stared blankly ahead like the world didn't exist––like he didn't exist. Now all she had to worry about were his legs and making sure that he wasn't having too much fun. It was a relief, honestly. 

They watched the show for about five minutes before Penny remembered that she'd wanted to talk to him about something. She turned to face him, lifting her head from his shoulder. He squeezed her arm as if to say, what's up?

"New Years Eve," she said, randomly. "We should do something fun." 

He furrowed his brow at her. "Isn't that...soon?" 

She nodded. "Yeah, tomorrow."

"Bit late to plan a party." 

"I don't want a party, anyway. Micah's coming in tonight and I thought we could all do something. Just the four of us. It'll be such fun, Simon." 

"Micah's coming?" 

She laughed. "I've told you, like, a thousand times, Simon. We've had it planned for ages." 

He frowned again and took a sip of his tea, obviously upset that he'd forgotten. 

"Anyway, we can go out. Go clubbing, maybe."

"Isn't that...it's dancing, innit?" 

She nodded.

"Can't dance. It'll––my legs."

She wanted to face palm. "Shit, of course. You don't have to dance! They have seats and booths and things. If you get too tired, you could always just sit down." 

He shrugged and pull her closer into himself like he was trying to show her how much he loved her with his touch. She smiled in the warmth of it, trying to show him just how much she loved him, too. "I'll think about it. Okay?" 

She nodded.

He was trying again. Against all odds, Simon was trying to live a normal life and embrace his friends and the experiences that waited for him in the world. Penny's heart soared at the thought of it all, and soared even more when she realized that, at least with this, he was trying for her.


	27. Twenty-Six

Simon felt like a proper idiot in this outfit, but the slight smile on Baz's face as he admired his "handiwork" was all Simon needed to determine that this outfit, no matter how posh and ridiculous, was a good choice for the night. They were going to some club or another and Simon was incredibly nervous for it all. He was nervous for the dancing, nervous for the drinking, nervous for his leg, and nervous for Baz and Penny and the idea of this strange double date. He'd told Baz he was nervous in every way short of actual speech, so Baz had put his hand gently on Simon's shoulder and told him that he'd help him get ready. 

And now that Simon was ready, he was nervous all over again. 

"You look gorgeous," Baz said, coming up behind him in the mirror and wrapping his arms around Simon's waist. 

"I look like a knob," Simon argued with a frown. "It's too...I'm not this posh."

Baz rolled his eyes. "Stop thinking about it. Aren't you supposed to be the one who doesn't think in this relationship? You look amazing."

Simon couldn't help but smile at that. 

When they got to the club, it was noisy and loud and crowded and Simon felt a bit like he was suffocating in the sea of people. He looked around nervously, cutting his eyes across the dark space. There were moving bodies everywhere. There was grinding and singing and slow, purposeful movements across the dance floor. Everyone was smiling, their teeth shining white in the lights that glided over them. Baz, who must have noticed Simon's nerves coming in full force, put his hand on Simon's back which sent a tingle down Simon's spine. 

"Drinks!" Penny cheered, turning to them. "What's everyone want? First round's on Micah!"

Micah rolled his eyes, but he had a smile on his face. 

"Whiskey," Baz said. "Neat." 

Penny nodded and turned to Simon. 

"I––" 

The urge to turn to a nice, cold glass of cider was overwhelming. "Smirnoff Ice?" 

Baz frowned at him and opened his mouth to protest, but Penny was already off like a rocket to the bar to put the order in.

"What are you, Snow? A teenage girl?" 

Simon shrugged. He wanted something sweet and not too strong. He wanted to keep his wits about him so he could keep a close eye on his leg to make sure that he wasn't pushing himself. He wanted to dance with Baz––God, he wanted to dance with Baz––but he didn't want to hurt himself in the process. When he looked at the dance floor, he saw a pair of blokes grinding on each other, their bodies moving smooth and languidly against each other like they had rehearsed this for hours on end. It was so perfect and flawless and it made Simon's stomach clench to see it because he knew that, if he tried to do that with Baz, his movements would be choppy and abrupt and decisively not sexy. 

"Care for a dance?"

Simon shook his head. "I think––I'll just sit. For a bit. You should go, though. Dance with Penny and Micah. Have fun, yeah?" 

Baz looked him over like he was trying to figure out if there was some hidden meaning in there, but after a moment he gave up and went to go join the horde of people on the dance floor. 

Simon found himself alone and stumbling over towards an empty booth to rest up, trying to build up the courage to dance. He sat there for a few minutes before Penny came by and handed him his Smirnoff before she went off to dance with Micah towards the edge of the mob. He'd lost sight of Baz after a few minutes, but he knew that it meant that Baz had just gotten into the middle of the floor and that he was having a good time. So Simon watched everyone having fun for a bit, trying not to show that he was as miserable as he was. He took another swig of his drink and stared at the dance floor, trying to find Baz. 

Then he spotted him somewhere near the outer ring of the middle crowd. There was another bloke trying to dance with him and Baz didn't seem to be completely against it. Simon felt rage and jealously bubble up inside of him, somewhere deep in his core. Baz looked bloody perfect, of course, even in this crappy establishment. His hair was loose around his face and his eyes glinted in the strange lighting (some combination between far too dim and far too fucking bright with the multi-colored LEDs) and the other bloke was there for it. So Simon did the sort of thing that he was used to––he turned his brain off. He shut his thoughts off, downed the rest of his drink, and made his way towards Baz on the dance floor to show this stupid, frumpy guy that Baz was fucking his. 

Baz looked almost relieved but also quite surprised to see Simon charging towards him. Simon ignored the pain in his leg with each stomp because, well, damn his leg, and when he finally reached Baz, he stepped in-between the two of them. 

"Baz," he whispered, reaching up to put his mouth against Baz's ear. 

"Simon."

"You see those two blokes over there?" Simon gestured to the pair behind him.

Baz peeked around Simon's head and nodded. Simon gripped Baz's waist, resting his fingers on the edge of Baz's jeans.

"I'm going to try and make you feel that good," he said, planting a kiss to Baz's neck. 

Baz stifled back a moan and put his own hands on Simon's hips, guiding them together to mimic the action of the other two dancers. 

Simon was right when he thought that he wouldn't be all that great at it––his movements were aggressive and off-tempo, but he realized that he had been being a proper idiot earlier because it didn't fucking matter that he sucked at this. Baz made up for everything Simon lacked in elegance and grace, just like life. That's why, Simon realized, they worked so well together. Simon was all unfiltered thoughts and clenched fists, but Baz was cool-headed and refined. They brought out the best in each other––Simon giving Baz some of his broad range of unfiltered emotions and Baz giving Simon some of his poise. They were polar opposites apart, but when they were together...

They matched. 

And now, with his leg slotted between Baz's, he couldn't help but smile because this, this messy tangle of limbs and love and want, was like coming home. It was like two puzzle pieces fitting together. It was everything he had ever wanted from life, from another person. And, suddenly, it all made sense to him. The way they were before, there wasn't a day where they would both live through it. The pain and heartbreak and depression that followed that was necessary. They built each other up and broke each other down until they were ready to just be together. There were no secrets anymore. No lies. No double lives. 

Just Simon and his messy stumble through life and Baz there to pick him up when he fell. 

Just Simon and his impossibly, perfectly imperfect boyfriend that he loved with all his heart. 

Just Simon and Baz.


	28. BONUS SCENE

Simon was incredibly nervous. More nervous than he had ever been before, actually, and he'd had quite a few things to be nervous about. 

In comparison, his rocky recovery was so simple compared to this. He'd trade that helplessness he felt on days where he couldn't even bend his leg without tears pooling in his eyes for this feeling now in an instant. He'd trade it for the day where he realized (really realized) that his brain would never really be the same and that university was causing him more bad than good. He'd trade it for those in an instant because, back then, Baz was by his side. Baz was the one who took off work to just lie in bed with Simon when he couldn't stand. Baz was there when Simon quit university and started putting in more time at the café. And Baz had been so fucking supportive and lovely through all of it, too. In all honesty, Simon wouldn't have been able to survive it without him. (Or Penny, for that matter.)

But now he was on his own for this new feeling. For the weight of his recent purchase heavy in his pocket as he tried, with fumbling hands, to fix his hair.

"You look fine, Simon. I don't get what all the fuss is about," Penny said, extremely bored after having to sit and help him get ready for the past hour. She'd gotten Micah to loan him a suit––a nice grey one because Baz had mentioned that he loved Simon in grey. 

He shot her a look. "Pen, this is bloody important, yeah? I'm...it––what if I fuck it up?"

Penny rolled her eyes. "You will fuck it up, Simon. That's what I've been telling you!"

He wanted, like really wanted, to jump out of his window.

"You know what I mean. You'll fuck it up and Baz will still love it because fucking things up is who you are and he's totally in love with you."

Simon sighed. "What if...he might say––"

"Christ. He won't. He'll love it. Trust me, okay?"

Simon nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. Despite her snippiness, Penny had been a total godsend. From the first moment he told her his plan, she'd been nothing but supportive. She'd gone with him to the shops to browse and had let him read his speech to her multiple times just so he could commit it to memory and fix any issues with it. She gave his hand a squeeze and shot him a reassuring smile just so he knew that she was, as always, on his side and rooting for him. No matter what. If things didn't go according to plan, she'd be here in their flat with open arms, sour cherry scones, and a pint of butterscotch ice cream. 

There was a knock at the door. Simon's mind instantly started reeling again but Penny just squeezed his hand again before the thoughts could get too intrusive. (He'd already been sick four times. Nerves.)

Baz looked, as always, totally flawless. His suit was a dark green and Simon thought that it shouldn't really work for anyone, but it worked for Baz. Everything did. The wanker. 

"Don't you look elegant and put-together," Baz smiled from the doorway. 

Simon blushed and took his hand in his own, just to calm himself down. "Th––thanks. You look––"

Baz didn't press him, mock him, or make fun of him. He let Simon take his time to come up with the words. 

"Lovely," Simon decided with a determined nod.

Baz rolled his eyes, but Simon could see him fighting the smile that lingered on his lips. "I'll have him home by eleven, Bunce," he said with a curt nod to Penny.

It had become a thing over the past few months: Penny being Simon's unofficial keeper.

"Take your time, boys. Sure to be a fun night. No need to rush."

The restaurant was absolutely stunning. Simon had spent the better part of the day both at the place and on the phone with employees to ensure that everything was perfect. Since it was the summer and unnaturally warm for London, Simon had reserved the balcony. He'd decked it out with red carnations and fairy lights just to give it that romantic feel that he knew Baz would love. He'd purchased a bottle of really nice champagne just as a cherry on top because Baz was a bit stingy about his beverages.

"Snow," Baz said, eyeing the space nervously. "Did you do all this?" 

Simon nodded and pulled a chair out for Baz, gesturing for him to sit. Baz did, but he still looked very skeptical about the whole ordeal. Simon had been expecting that, though, since his normal idea of date night was take out and Netflix. Not that Baz had ever complained, of course, because those dates included lots of cuddles and kisses. 

"I know I was never, like, good with words," Simon said, sitting in his chair across from Baz, "and now I'm worse, so I just wanted...I wanted to show you. Like, how much you mean to me, you know?" 

Baz opened his mouth to say something––probably to try and convince Simon that he wasn't bad with words––but Simon cut him off. 

"I've spoken to the chef, yeah? She's making you your favorite. No menus."

Dinner went, surprisingly, very well. Simon managed to keep himself together until the waiter came by to take their plates after the entree. So, while they waited for desert, Simon poured them each a glass of champagne.

"I know I don't say this a lot, or as often as I should, anyway, but I really love you," Simon said, recalling his speech from memory. 

Baz grinned at him. 

"I love you more than anything, yeah? And I know we haven't had, like, the easiest go of things, but I think we've come out for the better. Growing up, I never really got what it meant to be loved. To love someone else. I had Penny, but I always knew that something was missing. And then, at the fucking Daily Grind of all places, I met you. From the first moment I saw you...something slotted into place, yeah? Like I was drawn to you or something. Like fate. And I'm so happy that it happened because I can't imagine life without you. Even on my worst days, you've always been there for me with your patience and your big heart and..."

He cleared his throat and raised his glass. Baz raised his, too, clearly still unclear about what was happening.

"What I'm saying, Baz, is that I'd like to propose." 

Baz looked at him, his smile unwavering, glass still raised. Simon furrowed his brow. Surely Baz would have said yes or no by now, right? Did his silence mean a no? A yes? 

"Baz?" 

"Yes, love?" 

"Whatta ya say?" 

"To what? I was waiting for you to finish with what we're toasting to."

Simon was very confused. "I––what?"

"You said all of those very lovely things," Baz reminded him, "then raised your glass and said you'd like to propose. So I was waiting for you to say what exactly you're proposing a toast to."

Fucking hell. When Simon had thought this through, he thought it would have been funny and sweet to do it like that. Baz was smart. So smart. Simon thought he would've caught on pretty quickly. 

"I––nothing, Baz. I didn't want to propose a toast!"

"I don't understand why you're getting so upse––"

"I said I wanted to propose! Like, propose. For marriage."

Baz opened his mouth then promptly shut it. He blinked a few times, but he didn't say anything. 

"Are you having a heart attack?"

Baz snapped out of his weird trance. "Wait. So, what you're saying is that...you...you want to marry me?"

Simon set his glass down in exasperation. "Crowley, yes. Exactly. I just proposed to you, didn't I?"

In an instant, Baz was leaning across the table and grabbing Simon by his lapel. He smashed his lips against Simon's with an unprecedented amount of passion and fervor and Simon smiled, melting into it before he realized that a kiss was not technically an answer. 

"Is that a yes?"

Baz brought their foreheads together. "Of course it's a yes, Simon. Christ. Yes. I love you."

Simon brought their lips back together for a moment. "Oh, shit. I, uh, I have a ring, yeah? You want it?"

Baz shook his head. "Just kiss me, you numpty."

He tried to kiss Simon again, but he pulled away with a smile on his lips. "Hey, is that any way to talk to your bloody fiancé?"


End file.
